


In the Family Way

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Egg Laying, M/M, MTMTE Season One, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mechpreg, Oviposition, Semi-Bestiality, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-11-05 11:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Ratchet thought he was too old for this. And then the accidental heat charging through the Lost Light swept him up, too. If only he’d locked his door, then he wouldn’t be in this mess, but Sunstreaker stepping in to help him clean it up, that’s the best outcome he could have hoped for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sponsored fic for an anonymous person. Bob, as presented here, is sapient but processes differently, is incapable of what he calls "mechspeak", and views the world differently than the Cybertronians around him. I leave it up to the reader whether or not you consider this bestiality, so the choice to continue is yours.

For once, it wasn’t Rodimus’ fault.  
  
Perceptor was going to carry the blame of this for decades. Perceptor and Brainstorm both, because Ratchet was rather certain that if Brainstorm hadn’t startled Perceptor, he wouldn’t have dropped the highly volatile liquid he was using in a highly volatile experiment. If he hadn’t dropped it, then there wouldn’t have been an explosion which knocked them both unconscious in a cloud of noxious fumes.   
  
Which meant they wouldn’t have knocked their processors for a loop and woke in the middle of a voracious, demanding heat.  
  
Containment became immediately necessary.  
  
Containment was impossible.  
  
On a ship with close quarters, full of mechs who hadn’t had a complete heat in centuries if not millennia because of the stress and rigors of war, the rampage of heat was inevitable.  
  
It only took one spark to light the flame. And now Ratchet was up to his elbows in mechs whining, griping, and dripping lubricant.  
  
All forward motion had been stalled. They’d set into orbit around Orthanx, which had an exceedingly long and complicated name in the language of the residents, but they were all creatures incapable of space-light and therefore wouldn't be a problem to orbiting Cybertronians.  
  
Ratchet handed out anti-sparking supplements like candy and hoped the crew was smart enough to take them. At least, those who weren't interested in raising bits anyway. For all he knew, there were some mechs aboard who were ready to take on that responsibility, now that the war was semi-over. They weren't completely out of danger, but it was the closest they'd come in a long, long time.  
  
Ratchet, meanwhile, was exhausted.  
  
Heats were never fun for medics. They were especially not fun for medics who didn't have enough coworkers, and there were only three of them for a crew of two-hundred. Three because even their supplemental medics -- like Hoist -- had gone down in the first wave struck by heat. He was cloistered in a room and last Ratchet heard, Hoist was in the cool-down phase.  
  
He'd be unhelpful for at least another week.  
  
Ratchet thought he was safe. He thought his coding was up to snuff, and strong enough to stave off even the most insistent heat. He'd thought he was too damn old for this slag, too damn prepared, and too damn cranky.  
  
He was terribly, horribly wrong.  
  
It started small at first. A second glance at a mech he'd always known was attractive, but hadn't given another thought beyond that. A lingering appreciation of Smokescreen's thighs. A fantasy of being held by Ultra Magnus' very large hands. Of being touched by Fort Max's even larger fingers. Of being held down and spread wide.  
  
He woke up from a stasis nap with slick on his thighs, and a sense of doom fell over Ratchet like a heavy shroud. He tried to stave it off. He scrambled up, took two doses of suppressant, and considered the matter solved.  
  
It absolutely wasn't.  
  
Most mechs stayed in their own quarters for the course of the heat. Those with complications, or who had opted to ride it out on their own but under observation, or needed to be implanted with anti-spark devices, they were the reason Ratchet was up to his elbows in hot, sticky crewmembers.  
  
And they smelled divine. Their fields were sticky buzzes of arousal, clinging to his own and refusing to let go without a strong push. Ratchet's insides twisted and gnawed with heat, and his valve clenched and clenched, and his spike grew and throbbed. He swallowed suppressants until it was obvious they weren't having an effect.  
  
After that, well, there was nothing left to do but give in to the inevitable.  
  
He spat an excuse at First Aid.   
  
Thinking back on it, Ratchet wasn't even sure if it made sense or if his apprentice believed him, or if he was coherent enough to give a good excuse. But he fled the medbay and dove into his quarters, managing to make it to his berth before his panels snapped open and lubricant dripped to the floor.  
  
His first overload came like a burst of electric shock. He writhed on the berth, fingers passing over his swollen anterior node only twice before the ecstasy took him. It barely took the edge off the need, raging through him like an inferno.  
  
He rolled over onto his belly, hand thrust beneath him, humping his fingers, the scent and taste of his overload thick on the air. He groaned like a desperate animal, rutting against his palms, overloading again within the span of a minute. His vision lit with sparks, his vents roared, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough.  
  
Ratchet shuttered his optics and snarled into the pillow, as he shoved his fingers deeper, curling to embrace every internal node he could reach. At this rate, he was in for the longest heat of his functioning.  
  
Primus help him.  
  


~

  
  
Bob was getting very, very tired of being locked up in Sunstreaker's room. It was a nice room. It was a clean room. It had a very comfortable bed and all of his toys, and most of the time, Sunstreaker could be found in it, too. They occasionally had visitors and Sunstreaker liked to keep the vidscreen on so Bob could watch shows when Sunstreaker was gone.  
  
But there was only so much sleeping and playing and watching Bob could do before the boredom set in. He could usually tolerate a little boredom. It didn't happen often. Their ship always seemed to be getting in trouble one way or another.  
  
Genuine boredom was very rare.  
  
Right now, it wasn't boredom that had Bob pacing back and forth inside their room, staring hopefully at the door. It was restlessness. Because the ship hadn't been moving for several weeks now, and there were very, very interesting smells coming from the vents. Bob wanted to find these smells and figure out what they were, but Sunstreaker kept locking him in here, and nudging him away from the door.  
  
Sunstreaker worked a lot more now, too. He took on twice as many shifts as he used to, so he was hardly here to pay attention to Bob. He kept Bob's food dish full, and they still recharged in a happy pile, but it wasn't the same. So Bob was bored and restless and lonely.  
  
He might have watched Sunstreaker a bit too closely when his best buddy slipped out, and he might have pelted fast across the floor, sliding something into the gap so he could escape. Since Sunstreaker kept changing the lock code once he realized Bob could memorize. His best buddy was so smart.  
  
Bob waited just long enough until he was sure Sunstreaker was out of sight, and then he slipped from their room, letting it lock behind him. He figured he had a few hours before Sunstreaker knew he was gone, or someone spotted him and informed Sunstreaker. A few hours of freedom was better than none.  
  
Bob trundled down the hallway, following the various yummy scents soaking the air. They were everywhere, some with different flavors but all of them intriguing. The thicker scents were behind closed and locked doors. He recognized a lot of them. Lots of friends here.  
  
Bob sniffed around the doors, his engine rumbling with delight at the warm, spicy scent. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite tap the right memory in his storage banks. He had trouble, sometimes, accessing those. Like the connections weren't always there.  
  
He kept going, sneaking past the mess hall where people were likely to notice him, and even sneakier past Swerve's. He paused to listen, and heard nothing. It was oddly quiet in Swerve's. Usually it was very noisy and brimming with the multiple fields of everyone inside. Not so much today.  
  
Weird.  
  
The training room was empty. How disappointing. Usually he could find someone to play fetch with or get some wrestling practice in, but there was no one.  
  
The hallways were deserted, too. It was eerily quiet. Even more so that the ship was docked or orbiting or something. Bob knew the normal noise of the Lost Light, and the sounds it made when it was in motion. The usual thrumming and humming had stalled.   
  
What was going on?   
  
Bob avoided the bridge. He knew better than to go anywhere near where Ultra Magnus might be. He was big, and he was angry, and he didn’t approve of Bob very much. He had an always-frown, and no matter how cutely Bob chirped or danced around his feet, he never loosened or unbent himself enough to offer Bob a pet.   
  
Bob had even managed to charm Rodimus. But not Ultra Magnus. It was okay if Rodimus caught him, but not Ultra Magnus. Better to avoid the bridge altogether.   
  
The smell grew stronger.   
  
Bob paused in the middle of a t-section hallway. He turned in a slow circle, nasal sensors catching air currents, and pinpointed the direction of the interesting smell. It was coming from the medbay area, he was sure of it.   
  
He followed.   
  
The scent thickened and strengthened until he could taste it. The smoky, sweetness of it kept pinging at the back of his mind with familiarity. It was on the tip of his glossa how he knew it, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.   
  
He passed by Ratchet’s door, and a waft of the scent caught his attention. He rose up on his hind legs and tried the handle. With a happy chirp, the door popped open for him. It wasn’t locked at all. Maybe Ratchet wanted him to visit? The medic gave really good behind the audial skritches, and he always had a lonely-look to him.   
  
He probably didn’t know how much Sunstreaker looked at him either. Bob’s Sunstreaker could be silly sometimes, not going after the things he wanted even though he should have. Sunstreaker missed the way Ratchet looked back at him.   
  
There were times Bob wished he could make the mechlanguage work for him, so he could tell both of them how silly they were being. Things weren’t nearly this complicated back in the Hive. But also, things weren’t as good in the Hive. This ship and this crew and Sunstreaker and his life, it was a lot better than the Hive.   
  
Confusing.   
  
But better.   
  
Bob slipped into Ratchet’s room, and the door closed behind him. The panel beeped. He looked back, but it still glowed ready-green at him. Not locked.   
  
A sound made his antennae shoot up straight. Ratchet’s room was very dim, but that was no trouble at all for an Insecticon.   
  
He followed the noise, and didn't have to go far. Ratchet had bigger rooms than a lot of people on the ship, and he had a little private room for his bed off to the side. The door to it was ajar, and it only took a nudge from Bob's secondary arm for it slide open the rest of the way. There weren't any lights on in here either, except for the emergency ones, but the bright, pulsing glow of biolights were easy to pick out.  
  
Ratchet was on the floor for some reason. He was on his knees, chest pressed to the ground, legs spread wide, aft pointed upward. He was groaning and panting and shaking, his armor clattering, and his field hot and wild. The spicy, interesting smell was coming from him. He didn't seem to notice Bob either. Which probably had something to do with the fact he was facing a different direction, but usually, Ratchet was very perceptive.  
  
Right now, though, his engine rumbled, and his vents whirred, and his fans roared. He kept moaning and gasping and groaning, and making very wet sounds. Bob inched closer and realized why. Ratchet had his fingers between his legs, in his valve, and he was touching himself with abandon. The smell got even stronger.  
  
Bob's spark spun a little faster. There were droplets on the floor; they glistened in his dark vision. He investigated them with a sniff and a lick, identifying lubricant. Very sweet and tangy and they matched the scent, but stronger. Vibrant.  
  
His memory core pinged. Threads connected. He knew this scent. He remembered this smell. It was a ready-mate smell! The ship was in a breeding season, that was why it was so quiet and empty. Everyone was busy breeding, making a new clutch to help their family grow. And Ratchet was ready to mate, too. He was ripe and ready, and he was alone.  
  
No. That was wrong. Ready-mates should never be alone. Ready-mates should always have someone to help them and pleasure them and fill them with eggs. Why was he alone? Ratchet was kind and strong and talented. He should have a line of mechs outside his door, ready to assist him.  
  
This wouldn't do at all.  
  
Bob's groin throbbed.   
  
He shouldn't. He hadn't earned the right, but Ratchet groaned like he was in pain, and he should be! Ready-mates needed a partner! No one else was around, and Bob knew he should go find someone. Probably tell Sunstreaker, but damn it. They wouldn't be able to understand him because they didn't get his language. They might drag him back to his room without letting him show them what was wrong.  
  
Then Ratchet would keep suffering, and Bob couldn't have that. He liked Ratchet a lot. And Sunstreaker did, too. Bob couldn't leave him to suffer.  
  
He crept forward, with Ratchet seemingly taking no notice of him. He nudged the back of Ratchet's thigh, in-venting the sweet, tangy scent of him, his mating protocols springing into action as his interface panel snapped open. He nuzzled Ratchet's valve, his mouthplate getting soaked in lubricant before he made it slide aside, and he could lick a long path up Ratchet's valve, tasting his lubricant, tasting his readiness.  
  
Oh, he was primed. He was eager. He needed to be mated.  
  
Bob licked him again and again, and Ratchet moaned, his fingers falling away to claw the floor. He pushed back against Bob as if on instinct, head bowing, until something shivered in his field. Something like a moment of calm in the midst of a storm.  
  


~

  
  
Ratchet wasn't dying.   
  
Because he wasn't an idiot, and he was a trained medic, and he knew no one could die from lack of a partner during a heat, but Primus, it certainly felt like he was dying. One, two, five overloads weren't enough. The need clawed him from the inside out. He never made it to his toy chest. He didn't have the strength.  
  
He was in agony. His hand was tired, his fingers ached, he drooled on the floor because he didn't have the energy to climb back into his berth. The temptation to call someone, anyone, was getting too strong for him to ignore.  
  
Then he felt the hot, wet lick over his valve.   
  
Ratchet moaned, delirious from need. He moved toward the source of his relief, as several more wet laps made him quiver, and his valve clench on nothing. He abandoned his valve to brace himself on the floor. A long and agile glossa slid over and into him, tickling his sensors and making them sing.  
  
It occurred to him that there shouldn't be anyone in his room. There certainly shouldn't be anyone offering him pleasure. Through the haze of heat, a tiny light of sanity rose. He managed a brief scan, but for some reason, it pinged back unintelligible results. Maybe he couldn't read it in his current state. He didn't know. He was on fire, and could barely think straight as it was.  
  
The glossa licked him again, curling up and under to flick over his node. Ratchet cried out, knees wobbling, fingers digging into the floor. He pushed back against the willing mouth, registered heat and another presence. Smelled the arousal, and felt the odd, buzzing energy field crashing against his own.  
  
The glossa retreated. Weight abruptly landed on Ratchet's lower back and aft, slamming against the back of his thighs, and a blunt, dripping pressure nudged his valve. Ratchet braced himself against the weight, heard the sound of heavy fans and odd little chirps and rumbles.  
  
Wait.  
  
Chirps?  
  
Ratchet forced his optics to online, without realizing he'd closed them, and glanced over his shoulder. It was dark in his room, but it was impossible to miss the large frame looming over him. Or the four, yellow optics blinking back at him, and the yellow and purple biolights.  
  
... Bob?  
  
Something firm nudged his valve again, applying a direct pressure to his folds and node, and Ratchet shivered, kneading at the ground. Pleasure spiked through his frame. Oh, he needed to pull away, he needed to tell Bob 'no'. He needed to do something more than just crouch here, subtly rocking back against what was obviously a spike.  
  
He shouldn't let this happen.  
  
Bob rocked against him again, breaching his valve with the bulbous tip of his spike, grinding against the inner ring of nodes. Ratchet moaned. His limbs wobbled. His forehead pressed to the floor, delight cresting through his frame. Primus, it felt so good though. Bob was tangibly thick, and he spread Ratchet's calipers with a delicious stretch.  
  
Pleasure sang through his lines, his valve rippling and spilling lubricant. Ratchet rocked back and back, encouraging the thick spike deeper. He registered, distantly, that it was attached to Bob, and therefore, he should stop this now. Stop this before it was too late. Before Bob slid into him, deeper and deeper, so so so good against the mostly untouchable nodes.   
  
Ratchet shuddered and ground his face against the floor, knees digging in, spark flaring and dancing with heat. His valve clamped down, calipers spiraling tight around Bob’s spike, refusing to allow him an easy retreat. It was a relief, a complete and utter relief to finally have someone inside him, someone with a spike throbbing with charge, seeking out his internal nodes and grinding heavy against them.   
  
Another jolt of pleasure pushed Ratchet to the point of almost-overload. He panted, fogged the metal of the floor, fingers skreeling over it.   
  
Bob chittered, paused, shifted, paused again.   
  
Now. Now would be an excellent time to lift his head, to break the near-quiet with a firm command for Bob to stop. For Ratchet to dig his fingers and knees into the floor, pull off the plump thickness of Bob’s spike, and seek his relief elsewhere.   
  
The words didn’t come.   
  
Bob’s smaller hands grabbed him the waist, pulled him back in the same motion he thrust forward. Hard, claiming, metal against metal, and he pushed deep, deep enough to grind against Ratchet’s ceiling node.   
  
He shattered into overload, vision and thoughts going white with static.   
  
Ratchet slumped, panting, his frame twitching with the aftershocks. Need still rose within him, spiraling faster back toward overload, but Primus. Just the one had been ten times better than all the ones he’d managed with his own fingers.   
  
Bob kept moving. He’d been slow and steady, but after Ratchet’s overload, suddenly his thrusts picked up pace. Deeper and harsher, and the base of his spike felt thicker, more swollen where it ground over his rim nodes.   
  
Ratchet moaned, and his thoughts went fuzzy again. He braced against the floor, shoved back into Bob’s thrusts, and pleasure sparked through his lines like a lightning bolt. His valve rippled hungrily, his gestational port snapped open against the pressure of Bob’s spike, and a sharp cry of want escaped Ratchet before he could stop.   
  
Frag it.   
  
He didn’t want to stop. Not anymore.   
  
No one had to know. No one  _ever_  had to know. He could take the pleasure for what it was, let the chips fall, let his heat finally be sated. And no one would ever have to know.   
  
Bob shoved into him, harsh enough to force Ratchet across the ground. He gasped, shoved back, and the knot – for Ratchet recognized what it was now – shoved into him, beyond the rim of his valve, which immediately clamped around the bulge.   
  
Bob keened, an excited little chirp, and humped against Ratchet’s aft, faster and faster, plating clanging together. He grabbed Ratchet harder, and his spike swelled, filling every inch of Ratchet’s valve, grinding hard and electric over his nodes.   
  
Ratchet overloaded again. He drooled against the floor, entire frame spasming. He would have been ashamed if it didn’t feel so damn good.   
  
Bob continued to swell, straining the stretch of Ratchet's calipers, opening his valve wide, sensitizing his nodes to the point of absolute pleasure. He had a distant flicker of concern, that maybe Bob was too large, maybe he'd be hurting by the end.  
  
It didn't matter right now. It felt too good. It was absolute bliss. It was relief.  
  
If he'd known a smidgen more about Insecticon biology, Ratchet might not have been so steady.  
  


~

  
  
Bob had forgotten how it felt to take a ready-mate.   
  
He’d always been small, left behind, forgotten. He rarely won the dominance scuffles and had only taken a ready-mate twice in his entire functioning. That had been the epitome of bliss to him, but it had been a long time since.   
  
Bob had been shoved out of the nest for every heat-week after that. The Queen demanded he run scouting and gather materials and protect the Hive. They didn’t want him to mate.   
  
Ratchet was amazing. He felt so good, and his field was hot and molten, and he moaned and pushed back into Bob, asking for more. He was wet and tight, and his field tugged at Bob’s eagerly. He wanted more.   
  
Bob chirred and thrust into him harder, giving Ratchet whatever he wanted, locking his knot in Ratchet’s valve and grinding against his nodes. Ratchet moaned and keened and shuddered around him in overload, charge spilling over his armor.   
  
He was so pretty and so strong, he would make a good carrier for their eggs. They could have a family, a real one. Sunstreaker would be happy, too. Bob couldn’t wait to show him their new Hive.   
  
Bob shuddered as he overloaded and pumped all of his transfluid into Ratchet, spurt after spurt after spurt, filling Ratchet’s valve and his tank, preparing him for the eggs. Bob didn’t have a lot. He was a runt, so he didn’t prepare many. But he had enough.   
  
Ratchet moaned as Bob filled him, his frame quivering. Bob had to hold him to keep him somewhat upright. Heat poured off Ratchet in waves, his armor open and flexible to help him cool down. He was so loose and pliant in Bob’s arms.   
  
Bob chirred appreciatively.   
  
“I’m… never going to live this down,” Ratchet murmured, but he pushed back onto Bob’s spike anyway, his valve rippling around his rapidly deflating knot.   
  
His ovipositor swelled in his array, ready to emerge and fill Ratchet with his eggs. Bob licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, tasting his arousal and his satisfaction. He purred and clicked, soothing Ratchet as much as he could, his entire frame vibrating to offer comfort and pleasure.   
  
Ratchet groaned and sank a bit further on the ground, vents coming in sharp pants. He buried his face in his arms, his field tasting a bit of shame buried beneath the hunger. Poor Ratchet. It was hard for the mechs to embrace pleasure sometimes. They always thought too much about it.   
  
Bob licked his neck again, stroked his sides with his secondary arms, and waited for the knot cycle to finish. He rocked his hips, teased Ratchet’s rim nodes, and savored every delighted shiver until his spike finally slipped free, sated.   
  
He shifted.   
  
Ratchet made as if to pull away, and Bob crooned a negative sound at him. No, no. They weren’t done. They had to finish or Ratchet wouldn’t have the eggs!  
  
“… What?” Ratchet’s knees trembled as Bob hooked on a hip seam and pulled him back, rocking his groin against Ratchet’s aft. His ovipositor unfurled, bumping up against Ratchet’s aft and valve, teasing his swollen rim and exterior node.   
  
 _Shhh. Shhh._    
  
Bob tried to mimic the soothing sounds he’d heard other mechs made. He patted Ratchet’s side and back, lay licks all over his neck and shoulders.   
  
 _Shhh. Shhh._    
  
Ratchet groaned and went pliant again, his weight sinking into Bob’s grasp. “Fine,” he said, and his field opened up, molten and hungry. He went fully pliant in Bob’s embrace, his hips canting up and back, rim catching the concave head of Bob’s ovipositor.   
  
Bob chirred his approval. He thrust, rocking against Ratchet over and over, until his ovipositor finally sank into the delicious heat of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet groaned and his armor rippled, pleasure flowing through his field in sizzling waves. His valve clenched, rhythmically drawing Bob deeper.   
  
He purred and thrust again. And again. And again. Until the head of his ovipositor nudged against the open port of Ratchet’s carry-tank.   
  
Ratchet shuddered. His valve rippled around Bob’s ovipositor, milking him, and Bob chirred as heat and pleasure tangled together at the base of his spinal strut. Charge surged through his frame, and the eggs jostled at the base of his positor, eager to be planted.   
  
Bob chittered and licked the back of Ratchet’s neck as he dug his feet into the ground and thrust again, the head finally popping past the port rim. He and Ratchet both shivered, and Bob’s engine growled, a volcanic heat building in his groin. Ratchet groaned something Bob didn’t catch, and his port tightened around the head of Bob’s ovipositor.   
  
He was perfect.   
  
Bob chirped and lovingly stroked Ratchet, soothing him with gentle pets and licks, as the first egg worked its way through the shaft and into Ratchet, passing with a tight squeeze through the narrow port. Ratchet shuddered through an overload, but his frame opened, pliant and eager, his field wound around Bob’s, seemingly drowning in sensation.   
  
Good, good.   
  
He was so strong, so smart, so brave. He was the perfect carrier. Bob was very honored. Sunstreaker would be very happy. They would have the best family. The strongest family. A new Hive for Bob to call home.   
  
He couldn’t wait.   
  


*


	2. Chapter 2

Bob was missing.   
  
Normally, this didn’t concern Sunstreaker too terribly.   
  
Bob knew where their room was. He knew to come back. He had his favorites around the ship, those who gave him treats or the good audial skritches or played fetch or would wrestle him. Bob had a better social life than Sunstreaker did, honestly.   
  
Sunstreaker would be jealous if Bob wasn’t so darned cute.   
  
Right now, however. Right now was an absolutely terrible time for Bob to be missing. Half the ship was in a full-blown heat.  
  
Sunstreaker himself was on double-duty. As one of the few mechs unaffected by heat -- it was largely believed he couldn't have one -- he found himself pulling a lot of extra shifts just to keep the Lost Light in working order. Granted, they were stationary at the moment, but there were still things to be done.  
  
Sunstreaker was tired. He was ready to recharge for as long as he could. He didn't want to be wandering the halls of the ship, looking for his wayward pet. Yet, here he was. He hesitated to ask for help, because he wanted to avoid a lecture, but after an hour spent wandering, he conceded defeat.  
  
Most of the habsuites were locked, their inhabitants either cloistered inside to avoid getting launched into a heat of their own, or elsewhere, paired up with someone in heat who wanted a partner.  
  
Sunstreaker had one small point in his favor. Ultra Magnus, currently Minimus Ambus, was out of commission due to a heat of his own. Any lectures Sunstreaker might face wouldn't come from the stern former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.   
  
Rodimus was in no condition to lecture anyone either, which left Drift being run ragged as the only reasonable mech left in command. Somehow, the heat didn't seem to affect him. Which left only one nagging voice to irritate Sunstreaker for decades.  
  
Oh, well.  
  
He sighed and activated his comm, pinging the security office. "Sunstreaker here. Anyone on watch with a pair of keen optics?"  
  
"What'cha need Sunny?"  
  
Oh, thank Primus. It was Inferno and not Red Alert.  
  
"Bob's gone missing. You spot him on the vids anywhere?"  
  
Inferno's grunt carried through the comms. "Give me a minute and lemme check."  
  
Honestly, he should be pretty easy to find. The corridors had been deserted since the heat struck, so any movement would have triggered motion sensors. Sunstreaker had already checked all the usual spots -- the training room, Swerve's, the mess hall. He had a feeling Bob was hiding somewhere, so he wouldn't get locked back up in the room.  
  
"Last motion trigger has him in the hall outside the medbay. Mighta gone to see Ratchet, you know he's soft for the bugger."  
  
Sunstreaker snorted. "It's the only thing he's soft for."  
  
"Unless you count Drift."  
  
"Unless." Sunstreaker managed a smirk and shot a thumbs up toward the nearest camera, knowing Inferno could see it. "Thanks, 'ferno. I'll let you know when I find him."  
  
“Got it.”   
  
Sunstreaker started for the medical bay, keeping his optics peeled along the way. The halls were deserted, doors were closed and locked, and there was no sign of his missing pet. He braced himself before he went into the medical bay itself.   
  
The heat had no effect on him, true. But it was hard to remember that when he walked through the door and was smacked in the face by a wave of layered heat, need, and want. He tasted the arousal immediately, and a shudder wracked his frame.   
  
Sunstreaker paused, briefly dizzy, trying to catch his balance. He didn’t lose control of his senses, but it was a near thing.   
  
First Aid appeared in the doorway that led deeper into the medbay. He looked frazzled, fluids spattering his frame, his optical band flaring, his hands busy juggling one too many items.   
  
Sunstreaker rushed in to save him before he dropped a complicated and no doubt expensive machine of some kind.   
  
“Oh, thanks,” First Aid said with a crackle in his vocals that suggested complete and utter exhaustion. “Are you here to help?”   
  
“Technically, I’m off-shift right now. Before I collapse, according to Drift.” Sunstreaker swiveled and set the machine on the reception desk. “I take it things are going poorly.”   
  
“You have no idea.” First Aid sighed and dropped his armful of equipment onto the desk as well. It clattered and clanked. “If you’re not here to help then why are you here?”   
  
Sunstreaker leaned past First Aid, trying to peer down the hallway. “Looking for Bob. He got loose, and Inferno said he was last seen this direction.”   
  
“That’s… not good.”   
  
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”   
  
First Aid sighed and slumped into a lean on the edge of the desk, his vents rattling. “I haven’t seen him.” He rubbed a hand down his faceplate. “I’ll keep a look out, but I can’t promise anything. It’s just me and Ambulon now.”   
  
“What? Where’s Ratchet?”   
  
“I don’t know. He mumbled something about needing a break and vanished, but that was hours ago.” First Aid waved a dismissing hand, only for something on his arm to start violently flashing. He groaned. “And that’s the end of that.” He shoved back upright, joints creaking, field fluttering around his frame with exhaustion.   
  
Primus, maybe he should stick around and help. Bob would keep, right? No one was pinging the security desk, screaming about a rampaging Insecticon. It seemed like all the aid was needed here.   
  
“I’ve got to get back to work,” First Aid said with a rattling sigh. “Think you could do me a favor?”   
  
Sunstreaker hesitated. He was supposed to be resting right now.   
  
“It’s about Ratchet,” First Aid added.   
  
Well. That settled that.   
  
“What do you need me to do?” Sunstreaker asked, weak as he always was when it came to the medic who seemed to be a part of his life in some shape or form. Wherever Ratchet was, Sunstreaker wanted to be, even if only in friendship. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, but a small part of him hoped he might be given that gift.   
  
“Just check on him.” First Aid stared at the equipment assembled on the desk as if he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I have some suspicions about what’s wrong with him, but he’s a grown mech, and the last thing he’d want is me trying to doctor him.”   
  
Sunstreaker snorted. “I hear that.”   
  
"Yeah. Well." First Aid dug into his subspace and produced a datachip of some kind, which he handed over to Sunstreaker. "This'll get you into his habsuite. It's only a temporary access, so just toss it when you're done." He paused and scrubbed at his forehead. "I mean, he's going to yell at me anyway, so I might as well give him a reason to."  
  
"He won't yell," Sunstreaker said. "Or if he does, I'll make him aim it at me."  
  
First Aid chuckled, as tired as it sounded. "He always did love shouting at you and Sideswipe."  
  
"Mm." Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise. He didn't particularly want to think about his twin right now. Things between them had been strained for awhile, and he didn't anticipate them improving anytime soon.  
  
Then again, him deciding to climb aboard the Lost Light and take off into nowhere might have had something to do with it.  
  
“Good luck,” First Aid said. He vanished down the hallway with a parting wave, moving into a light jog as someone shouted his designation.   
  
Sunstreaker was glad he was not a medic.   
  
He headed for Ratchet’s habsuite, intending to use the medbay entrance rather than the main hall. He’d check on Ratchet, and then he’d go back to searching for Bob.   
  
As it turned out, he didn’t need First Aid’s chip, because the door opened at a touch, as if Ratchet hadn’t bothered to lock it.   
  
Curious.   
  
Sunstreaker stepped inside, rapping his knuckles on the inner wall as he peered into the gloom. “Ratchet?”   
  
Nothing answered him. Well, at least, not in words Sunstreaker understood. He heard shifting, the brush of metal over metal, a low moan and a shuddering ventilation.   
  
Heat flooded Sunstreaker’s face. Clearly, Ratchet was busy. He clamped a hand over his mouth and slid back, intending to get the frag out of Ratchet’s habsuite before the medic realized Sunstreaker had snuck in.   
  
A very, very familiar  _chirr_  floated to his audials. Sunstreaker froze.   
  
He dialed up the gain, listening intently. Another sound floated to his audials, that of a chirping, rolling purr he knew all too well.   
  
Oh.   
  
Oh no.   
  
Sunstreaker scurried forward, moving toward the shadowed opening he assumed led to a private berthroom, since the door opposite of him obviously led to the hallway. The sounds of metal on metal, wet slapping noises, gasps and moans, grew louder. Another series of chirps made his energon run cold.   
  
He skidded to a stop in the doorway, optics wide with horror.   
  
Bob was… he was…  
  
Ratchet was on all fours on the floor, chestplate pressed down, head turned toward Sunstreaker, optics shuttered, lips parted, drool gathered beneath his mouth. His fingers weakly kneaded the floor, and his knees rocked back, pushing toward the weight draped on top of him.   
  
The weight being Bob, who was rutting into Ratchet with short, stuttered humps, antennae waving and hips pushing. A puddle glistened beneath their combined frames, and the whole room stank of lubricant and overloads and the sweet, pungent aroma of a heat. Bob’s optics were bright, and he kept making that delighted, happy noise he made when Sunstreaker gave him his favorite treat. He licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, his smaller hands patting Ratchet’s armor.   
  
For a moment, Sunstreaker was shocked into immobility, before he burst into motion, stumbling across the floor toward Ratchet and Bob.   
  
“Bob, bad boy! Stop it!”   
  
Ratchet’s optics snapped open, his head shooting up, staring at Sunstreaker in evident horror. Bob squeaked and reared back, little hands scrambling at Ratchet’s back, and the medic hissed with pain.   
  
“He’s knotted,” Ratchet growled though denta visibly gritted.   
  
“Primus, Ratchet. I’m so sorry,” Sunstreaker babbled, curling his fingers in Bob’s collar fairing and trying to pull the Insecticon backward. “I should have locked him in better, I should have done something. I’m sorry.”   
  
He tugged.   
  
Bob yelped.   
  
Ratchet hissed and clawed at the ground.   
  
There was a loud, wet pop and Bob skittered backward, a large…  _something_  bobbing between his back legs. It was glossy with fluids, strangely concave at the tip, and a large knob at the base of it. Sunstreaker caught a glimpse of Ratchet’s valve, swollen and dripping, agape as the rim contracted around nothing.   
  
Bob keened and Sunstreaker wrestled him away, a much harder task than it should have been. Bob growled and fought him, trying to get back to Ratchet. Sunstreaker dragged him into the main room, throwing his weight around, snarling reprimands at his pet while Bob chirred and clicked and that obscene spike spattered fluid on the floor.   
  
Sunstreaker yanked the leash out of his subspace, snapped it into Bob’s collar, and lashed the Insecticon to the sturdiest piece of furniture he could find. Thank Primus Ratchet’s desk was bolted to the floor, otherwise Bob would have dragged it with him in his desperation to get back to Ratchet. On instinct maybe? Sunstreaker knew nothing about his pet’s biology.   
  
Frag, frag, frag.   
  
Sunstreaker panted, his tank queasy at the sight of Bob’s shrinking spike, the thick bulge deflating with little spurts of fluid from the strangely concave tip. Bob started to whine, a low, mournful noise of loss. It made Sunstreaker’s spark ache with sympathy, combating the disgust tangled in his tanks.   
  
Bob would be fine for now, Sunstreaker hoped. He turned his attention to Ratchet instead, who still huddled on the floor, face now turned and buried in his arms, knees still braced apart and hips making slow shifts backward. He visibly and audibly shivered, little rings of metal on metal, and his field was ripe with the scent of pleasure and heat.  
  
"Ratchet?"  
  
"You have timing that is both terrible and wonderful," came the response, thick with static, but coherent at least.  
  
Ratchet's head turned, optics looking up at Sunstreaker blearily. His fingers curved against the ground as he tried to push himself upright, but his knees wobbled.  
  
Sunstreaker moved to help him, careful where he put his hands, and Ratchet clattered backward, onto his aft, legs splayed. He sat in a puddle of fluids, valve still bared, and if it bothered him, there was no sign in his posture.  
  
"Did he hurt you?" Sunstreaker asked.  
  
Ratchet groaned and buried his face behind a hand. "This is humiliating."  
  
"I'm sor--"  
  
"Not your fault." Ratchet waved him off without even looking. "It's just a fragged up situation all the way around." His free hand reached blindly, fingers curling around Sunstreaker's upper arm. "I wasn't supposed to go into heat."  
  
Sunstreaker glanced at Bob, who had stretched to the limits of the leash and was peering in at Ratchet, his optics bright and antennae canted. "And I should have locked him up better."  
  
"Bob's smarter than we all give him credit." Ratchet sighed, a bit of a rattling, wet sound. "I'm just glad it was me and not someone else on the ship." He dropped his hand and his gaze, looking down between his thighs. "Primus, I'm a mess."  
  
"Nothing a visit to the washracks won't fix." Sunstreaker tried to find a smile, but he was out of practice. "Give me a second, and I'll help."  
  
"Not going anywhere," Ratchet muttered.  
  
Sunstreaker stood and checked the doors, making sure they were closed, locked, and wouldn't allow anyone to enter or exit without Ratchet's express permission -- including Bob. He triple-checked Bob's leash and collar, not that Bob was fighting him anymore or even trying to get free. He seemed content to lay down and stare mournfully Ratchet's direction.  
  
He pinged First Aid, let him know Ratchet was feeling ill and wouldn't be back, and got a distracted chirp of confirmation in reply. That saved him an explanation Sunstreaker wasn't sure he could fake.  
  
Ratchet hadn't moved by the time Sunstreaker came back. He still sat on the floor, in a puddle of fluids, dazed, armor shivering, heat cloaking his frame in visible curls. His optics were pale, his face drawn with lines of stress.  
  
"Come on." Sunstreaker urged Ratchet to his feet, grunting at the exertion. Medics were far heavier than they looked. "Let's get you cleaned up and get some energon in you, then you can recharge."  
  
Ratchet made an unintelligible noise. He didn't seem to be fully aware, and Sunstreaker hoped that was normal. He didn't have much experience with mechs in the midst of their heats. Maybe he'd be fine after recharge. If not, Sunstreaker would get First Aid.  
  
And pray Bob hadn't done irreparable damage. Sunstreaker would never forgive himself.  
  
He wrestled Ratchet into the washracks, guided him to the fold out chair, and made Ratchet comfortable while he powered on the solvent and started to clean. This was easy. He was used to this. Once upon a time, he used to wash and detail his twin. And Ratchet already wasn't in the best of shape. He really needed a full strip and repaint and wax. He needed someone to take care of him. Wasn't Drift always lurking around? Why wasn't he doing his job?  
  
Sunstreaker bit his glossa. Not his place, he reminded himself, not his place.  
  
He gently sprayed Ratchet's array, still open and swollen, radiating heat. Sunstreaker carefully rinsed away the fluids, grimacing at the sight of the transfluid. There was so much of it.   
  
Ratchet's engine thrummed in an idle. He watched Sunstreaker with hazy optics, but he didn't say much. He didn't protest either, so Sunstreaker hoped he wasn't overstepping his bounds. The spray gently passed over Ratchet's valve and main node, and Ratchet shivered, a low moan escaping from his intake.  
  
"Sorry," Sunstreaker murmured.  
  
"Don't be." Ratchet's voice was made of gravel. His field spiked, pushing at Sunstreaker's with heat and need. "Not your fault." He curled a hand around Sunstreaker's upper arm, his touch burning and firm. "Besides, I'm probably gonna have to apologize to you in a second."  
  
Sunstreaker furrowed his orbital ridges. "What? Why?"  
  
Ratchet tugged, pulling him off balance. Sunstreaker stumbled forward, close enough for Ratchet to cup the back of his head and pull him down into a kiss, one tasting of need and heat and want. It was an urgent kiss, and Ratchet's hold on the back of his neck was firm. Sunstreaker had to brace himself against the wall, lest he be yanked into Ratchet's lap.  
  
A low moan rattled in Ratchet's intake, and the sound of it stoked the flames of want in Sunstreaker's tanks. He leaned harder against the wall and deepened the kiss, the fall of the solvent pattering around them, filling the small space with a hot, damp mist.  
  
Ratchet broke away ,and Sunstreaker resisted the urge to chase his mouth. "Sorry," the medic said, his vocals strained and raspy. "I'm sorry, I just--"  
  
"Still in heat? It's okay." More than okay, but Sunstreaker didn't want to sound desperate. “Whatever you need.”   
  
“I shouldn’t,” Ratchet said, but his hands were tight on Sunstreaker, trying to pull him closer, his field reaching out as well, hungry strings wrapping around Sunstreaker. “I shouldn’t. You don’t--”  
  
Sunstreaker cut off his protest with another kiss. Maybe he offered under false pretenses, but Ratchet didn’t have to know. Ratchet needed it. The need yawing in his field felt like pain, and there was desperation in his kiss.   
  
He staggered upward and pulled Sunstreaker with him, until Sunstreaker had him pinned against the wall. Ratchet rolled his hips, grinding against him, spike extended and valve slicking his thighs with lubricant again.   
  
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker repeated. He curved a hand around Ratchet’s left leg, coaxing it to lift and wrap around him, opening Ratchet’s array up to him. “Take it from me. You can have it.”   
  
Ratchet groaned, his fingers spasming where they gripped the back of Sunstreaker’s neck. “You don’t have to--”  
  
“I know. I want to. I’m offering.” Sunstreaker popped his panel, his spike emerging, the head of it rubbing Ratchet’s slick, swollen pleats.   
  
Ratchet shuddered and ground down. Sparks of charge danced over his armor. “I need your spark, I think. Maybe it’ll satisfy the heat.” He licked his lips, rubbed harder against Sunstreaker, his field clinging sticky and hot.   
  
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker said, for the third time, and commanded his chestplates to open, letting the light of his spark spill into the space between them.   
  
Ratchet looked up at him, optics hazy, and gratitude pulsed in his field. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and stole Sunstreaker’s lips for another kiss, one that hinted of denta. He pulled Sunstreaker closer, grinding their chestplates together.   
  
He had nothing to apologize for. But Sunstreaker would worry about that later. Right now, arousal spiked in his own frame, and he pinned Ratchet against the wall. He felt Ratchet’s chestplates part against his, the buzzing warmth of Ratchet’s spark flaring warm and tingling when it met his outer corona.   
  
Sunstreaker shuddered and shifted his grip on Ratchet by a few inches, just enough he could finally slide home, his spike embraced by tight, rippling heat. Every ounce of effort he’d spent trying to ignore or cast aside his earlier arousal abruptly evaporated. Sunstreaker groaned, static shooting through his vision, as his spinal strut erupted in a burst of desperate charge.   
  
He panted, dropping both hands to Ratchet’s hips, hefting the medic against the wall. Ratchet moaned, clawing at his back, arching up against him, grinding down on his spike, grinding their open chestplates together, bursts of charge dancing between their sparks.   
  
Ratchet growled against his mouth, and his head tipped back, Sunstreaker chasing after his lips before mouthing over Ratchet’s cables, tasting the vibrations of his voice. He thrust fast and deep, grinding hard into Ratchet, a slick mess seeping out and staining his groin. Lubricant and Bob’s transfluid both, he knew.   
  
Ratchet needed him. That was what mattered.   
  
Sunstreaker pulsed his spark energy, felt Ratchet’s answer his in turn. He moaned, mouth returning to Ratchet’s for a kiss that swamped him with need. Ratchet rutted against him, valve clamping down tight, as the exchange of energies between their sparks became a rapid-fire pulse of pleasure, dragging Sunstreaker’s awareness out of his frame and into the fractured space between them.   
  
He couldn’t catch Ratchet’s thoughts, the merge was too shallow for that. But he felt Ratchet’s emotions, the rampant need, the hint of embarrassment, the buried desire.   
  
He clutched Ratchet harder, gave all he could spare and then some, pulsing hard and fast. Ratchet cried out against his mouth, valve squeezing down, spiraling tight. And then Ratchet was overloading, spasming between Sunstreaker and the wall, his spark flaring bright, encompassing Sunstreaker’s own.   
  
Electric ecstasy flashed over Ratchet’s frame, and it backflowed into Sunstreaker’s. He jerked, knees wobbling, as overload washed over him. He spurted into Ratchet’s valve, charge zinging up and down his backstrut. He clutched Ratchet closer, riding the aftershocks, his spark pulsing with satisfaction.   
  
Gradually, Ratchet’s frantic movements slowed, to something slower, more savoring, less full of desperation.   
  
“Better?” Sunstreaker asked.  
  
Ratchet’s valve convulsed around his spike. He cupped Sunstreaker’s face, their mouths in close contact. “Almost.”  
  
“More?” Sunstreaker cradled his hips, bracing him against the wall, his knees locking into place.   
  
A look of hesitation flickered over Ratchet’s face before he pressed their foreheads together, optics shuttering. “Please.”   
  
“Anything you want,” Sunstreaker promised, his spark spinning into a dance of delight. “Anything you need.”   
  


~

  
  
Ratchet onlined to comfort. The desperate, painful need was gone from his frame, leaving his thoughts clearer than they’d been in hours. He still ached, like his frame had been under strain for hours, but that should fix itself over another full recharge or two.   
  
His senses returned to him in trickles, sensation first, that of a soft cloth sweeping over his armor, buffing him to a fine shine. A warm field embraced him, pulsing low level wafts of comfort and reassurance. Sound came next, the quiet purr of his engine, the clicks and ticks of another frame beside his. Sight emerged last, vision bristling with static before it clarified into a familiar, handsome face hovering over him.   
  
“Sunstreaker?” he rasped.   
  
Lips curved into a soft, indulgent smile. Primus, he had a beautiful smile. But then, everything about Sunstreaker was gorgeous. “How do you feel?”   
  
“Sore.” Ratchet grunted. He sat up, but a wave of dizziness caused him to sway. Sunstreaker’s arm came around him then, helping him upright. “I think the heat is over. Thank Primus.”   
  
“That’s good to hear.” Sunstreaker swiveled away and came back with a cup. “Here. You probably need this.”   
  
A waft of coolant floated to Ratchet’s nasal receptors. His mouth was parched, his frame wrung dry, and it smelled like the most delicious treat in the universe.   
  
Ratchet carefully sipped at the coolant as Sunstreaker held it up to his lips. “Thanks,” he croaked and cycled his sensory suites, rebooting them. He slumped against the wall, and as he did, more sound trickled in.   
  
Soft, sad whining.   
  
He looked past Sunstreaker’s shoulder, out the door of his berthroom, and caught biolights aglow in the main suite. Two sets of optics peered back at him, and above them, twitching antennae.   
  
Oh, right. Wherever Sunstreaker was, Bob could be found as well.   
  
Wait.   
  
Bob.   
  
Memory surged to the forefront. Ratchet shuttered his optics, shame crowding his spark. He remembered being desperate, to the point of despair. The building urge inside of him had been painful, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.   
  
When Bob arrived, he hadn’t debated very long, had he? He’d have done anything to quell the thirst inside him.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
He sucked in a shuddering ventilation. “If you’re here, then I guess that means you found me.” He hid behind his palm. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”   
  
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” Sunstreaker took the coolant from Ratchet, and one of his hands rested on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I should have kept a better optic on him. Blame me. Hate me. Just don’t… don’t blame yourself.”   
  
Ratchet sighed. “I don’t hate you.” He touched his chestplate – recently shined at that. “Though you might hate me.” He seemed to remember all but forcing himself on Sunstreaker after another wave of painful need swept through him. “Thank you, by the way, for sharing your spark with me. I know it had to be difficult.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s gaze dropped. His face shaded pink. “You’ve saved mine and Sideswipe’s sparks a lot. It seemed right that I return the favor.”   
  
“Still.”   
  
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I’d do it again. Really, Ratchet. I’m glad I could help.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Bob, who straightened, antennae cocking forward, making another pull at the leash keeping him lashed to something in Ratchet’s suite. “Besides, it’s my fault Bob attacked you.”   
  
“I didn’t do a good job of saying no, to be honest.” Ratchet’s face heated. He squirmed. “What a mess.”   
  
“We don’t have to tell anyone.” Sunstreaker tipped the cube back toward Ratchet’s mouth, encouraging him to finish drinking. “I won’t tell anyone, I mean.”   
  
“There’s nothing to tell,” Ratchet muttered. He drank the coolant in one quick gulp and handed it back.   
  
Sunstreaker traded it for a different cube, this one filled with midgrade energon, flavored to Ratchet’s specifications no less. “There isn’t? You ran a scan?”   
  
Oh, Primus. He hadn’t. He’d just assumed. Bob was an Insecticon. Their interfacing shouldn’t have produced anything. But then, if it couldn’t, why would Bob’s transfluid help feed the heat? Or was it Sunstreaker’s help in the last round that satisfied his programming’s requirements?   
  
Ratchet didn’t know. There was no precedence. The whole incident was unexpected.   
  
“No. I didn’t.” Dread pooled heavy in Ratchet’s armor.   
  
He worked his intake and initiated the scan, free hand tangling in the berth cover, twisting it in his fingers. Warmth fell over his hand, and Ratchet managed a faint smile as he tangled his fingers with Sunstreaker’s.   
  
Ratchet sipped the energon while he waited, anxiety growing and growing, threatening to stall his fans. The scan pinged.   
  
Ratchet’s vents caught.   
  
He was sparked.   
  
Primus.   
  
Ratchet downed the rest of the energon, wishing it was engex or high grade instead. His frame couldn’t process it in his current state, but he wanted it anyway.   
  
“I’m sparked,” he said.   
  
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand. He didn’t say anything. Maybe it was better that he didn’t, because Ratchet himself didn’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Centuries of war had gone by, and he’d never once thought to spark. He’d been too young before the war started, too young to think about caretaking and settling down.   
  
Now he was too old for it, and he’d resigned himself ages ago to that kind of peaceful life being out of his reach. He didn’t know if he wanted it anymore – family and sparklings and responsibility.   
  
He also didn’t have much of a choice.   
  
“Should I congratulate you?” Sunstreaker asked, after a moment of quiet. “Or should I get on my knees and grovel for forgiveness?” His tone was tight, anxious, a shiver of unease in his field.   
  
Ratchet squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure about the first, but definitely not the second.” He looked at Sunstreaker and cycled a ventilation. “We’ll figure it out.”   
  
“I’ll take responsibility,” Sunstreaker said, and there was something at once bleak and solemn in his tone. “Bob never has to come into the picture. If anyone asks, it was me. All me. They’ll believe it easily enough.” The last came with a touch of bitterness and self-castigation.   
  
“Hey. Stop that.” Ratchet flicked Sunstreaker’s forehead. “None of that. You made a mistake, Sunny. We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t hold it against you.”   
  
“Well, you should.” Sunstreaker’s tone turned fierce. He made as if to pull away, but Ratchet’s grip on his hand prevented it. “I know what I did. You don’t have to pretend it’s okay.”   
  
Primus, well wasn’t this a fragging pit slag of a situation?   
  
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “I’m fine with telling mechs I was with you for my heat. As far as anyone is concerned, I asked and you agreed.”   
  
“That won’t upset Drift?”   
  
Ratchet blinked. “Why would it?”   
  
Sunstreaker shifted, discomfort flickering in his field. “Well, aren’t you two… together?”   
  
Ratchet snorted. “Primus, no. It’s not like that.” He scrubbed his forehead again, exhaustion still tugging at the edges of his conscious, but he needed to get this cleared up before it caused other problems.   
  
“Drift is… we have a shared connection. We’re very close, I realize that, and I know other people have noticed. But it’s not romantic. It’s something else. It’s important and real, but it’s not romance. I don’t know what else to call it.” He huffed, out of frustration more than anything else. He didn’t like not having the words he needed to express himself.   
  
“It’s okay. I think I get it.” Sunstreaker audibly ex-vented, and the tension rippling in his frame loosened, his seams unclamping. “So you’re… uhhh… unspoken for?”   
  
“As I’ve always been.” They weren’t going to talk about Pharma. That was a clusterfrag of epic proportions Ratchet didn’t want to talk about it. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to lean on you.”   
  
“I don’t mind.” Sunstreaker squeezed his hand again, and when he moved to withdraw, Ratchet let him. Sunstreaker stood. “Do you need anything? I should check on Bob.”   
  
Ratchet waved him off. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes. Check on the bug. Let him know I’m not mad.”   
  
It’s hardly Bob’s fault at any rate. Ratchet couldn’t blame the Insecticon for following through on his instincts. They knew next to nothing about Insecticons, especially ones who were the products of mad scientific experiments. Frag, sometimes they weren’t even sure how intelligent Bob actually was.   
  
Ratchet sank further into the berth and watched Sunstreaker, his spark squeezing. Contemplation reared its ugly head, and Ratchet batted it aside. He rested a hand over his chassis, thinking of the new spark growing within him, but his thoughts were still a tangled mess.   
  
Sunstreaker crouched by Bob, murmuring words Ratchet couldn’t hear, offering his pet skritches and cuddles, bringing out some energon for Bob to consume. Bob offered Sunstreaker most of his attention, but he kept straining toward the berthroom, straining toward Ratchet. Maybe he could sense something they couldn’t.   
  
Ratchet sighed.   
  
Complications. He hated complications. He couldn’t think of anything more complicated than this.   
  
Sunstreaker returned, more energon in hand. “Bob’s fine,” he said. “But you should probably get more recharge, and I’m sure you don’t want us around anymore.”   
  
“You should stop making assumptions.” Ratchet accepted the energon, swallowing it down quickly. He’d need to consume a lot more, he knew, now that he was sparked.   
  
He’d have to get Aid to look him over, help him extrapolate a birthdate. He’d have to take care of a lot of things, but tomorrow. Exhaustion tugged at every cable, and all Ratchet wanted to do was sink into the berth and recharge for another day or so. It was normal, he knew, for a mech post-heat. Especially a mech who had been successfully sparked.   
  
“What do you mean?” Sunstreaker cocked his head, confusion swirling around him like a pale miasma.   
  
“Stay.” Ratchet slipped further into the berth, the pull of recharge like an irresistible tug. “If you want to. I’d appreciate it.” Honestly, he didn’t want to be alone right now.   
  
Sunstreaker cycled his optics, looking startled. “Oh. Um. Sure.” He moved to the berth, resting a hand on Ratchet’s arm. “Whatever you want.”   
  
Ratchet managed a smile, a flush of relieved warmth spreading through his frame. He fell into recharge like that, with Sunstreaker’s hand on his arm.   
  
Safe. Protected. Maybe even loved.   
  
What a wonderful thought.   
  


****


	3. Chapter 3

Everything changed.   
  
In a flash. A moment of poor judgment. A twist of fate. A mistake on his part or no one’s part, Sunstreaker wasn’t sure.   
  
Ratchet’s heat ended. The rapid spread of it throughout the entire Lost Light ended, with less mechs than probably should have been affected walking away with consequences, but still far more than the three medics on board were comfortable caring for. Ratchet had to confess he’d been struck with the heat as well, but he kept the fact he was sparked to himself. They’d agreed to keep that quiet as long as possible.   
  
Ratchet didn’t want mechs fussing over him. Sunstreaker didn’t want the questions. They both figured mechs would talk and form their own theories, but that didn’t mean Sunstreaker or Ratchet owed anyone any truth. They crafted a careful lie.   
  
It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, yet they had to say something. A secret romance wasn’t unbelievable. The war had lasted a long, long time. Many secret relationships had been born over the course of it, some of which had continued into the truce, some of which had ended because one half of the partnership perished. Romance during wartime was a dangerous, dangerous risk.   
  
Only now did they feel safe to reveal the truth, they’d claimed. It was time to stop hiding and be together in the light, the way they’d always wanted to be. If Sunstreaker was a better poet or writer, he would have woven a romantic tale about their past. But he wasn’t, and the best he could do was be blunt.   
  
Most people didn’t want to ask him anyway. They didn’t want to ask Ratchet either. Instead, they whispered amongst themselves.   
  
It was fine. Sunstreaker was used to it.   
  
He went about his shifts like usual, Bob tagging along or left behind in Ratchet’s quarters, or often, Bob could be found at Ratchet's heels, obeying Ratchet like he'd never obeyed Sunstreaker. Most mechs didn't seem to mind Bob being around, and if they did, a single sharp word from Ratchet, and Bob would slink away, whining pathetically. He'd keep his distance, but he watched, like a protective gargoyle.  
  
It was a little creepy, Ratchet confessed.  
  
Sunstreaker didn't know how to make him stop. He wondered if it had anything to do with Bob taking part in Ratchet's heat. Ratchet didn't know either. None of them were experts on Insecticon behavior or biology. And the only mech they could reasonably ask was swelling with sparklings of his own.  
  
Sunstreaker would feel sorry for Perceptor, if it wasn't for the fact Perceptor's mistake caused this whole mess in the first place. It was further fair play that Brainstorm was the sire of his bitlets, though the chaos any spawn of those two could create was enough to give half the crew nightmares.   
  
Others noticed. Because if there was one thing the residents of the Lost Light excelled at, it was gossip. And they noticed when something was out of the ordinary. They noticed Sunstreaker spending more time with Ratchet. They noticed Bob following at Ratchet's heels. They stared, and they whispered, but only a few were so bold as to say something.  
  
Smokescreen, in particular, sauntered up with that slow, easy grin that had gotten him into more than a few berths, Sunstreaker's included. But he also knew that grin was a lot sharper underneath than others gave Smokescreen credit. Most didn't know he'd been trained by Prowl and recruited by Jazz.   
  
Sunstreaker did.  
  
He knew to be wary. Especially when Smokescreen slid into the booth across from him at Swerve's, and scooted Sunstreaker's favorite drink across the table.  
  
"For you," he said, plopping one elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.  
  
"I'm taken," Sunstreaker replied, flat, pushing it back with the tip of his finger.  
  
"So I've heard." Smokescreen's vocals could have waxed paint, so smooth they were. "All I'm asking for is details, Sunshine. How'd you snag the medical bay's most eligible bachelor?"  
  
"It's nothing new, we just weren't obvious about it," Sunstreaker lied. He'd gotten quite good at it over the centuries. Hopefully, good enough to fool Smokescreen.  
  
"Hmm. Wonder why I don't believe that," Smokescreen said.  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and sipped from his own cube, the one he'd purchased for himself. He continued to ignore the one Smokescreen offered. They were never free. "Ask me if I care whether or not you believe me."  
  
Smokescreen laughed and leaned back, sensory panels flat against the booth. "Your glossa is as sharp as ever, Sunny. I sure do miss that."  
  
 _Stop calling me that._  
  
He bit his glossa. There was no point in snapping at Smokescreen. He'd read too much from it.  
  
"Bygones." Sunstreaker flicked his fingers. "I'm with Ratchet now, and he's not one for sharing."  
  
"Yeah. I'll bet." Smokescreen chuckled, and his optics flashed with an incisive look. "Seems Bob likes him more, too. Did you two finally come out because you sparked him?"  
  
Damn him.  
  
Damn him to the Pit and back. In a list of bad decisions Sunstreaker made, berthing Smokescreen was one of them. It had been good at the time, but the repercussions were endless.  
  
He hated how accurate Smokescreen's guess was.  
  
There was no answer Sunstreaker could give that Smokescreen wouldn't be able to read through. So he didn't say anything. He drank his engex and glared.  
  
Smokescreen grinned. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He rapped his knuckles on the table. "I don't know if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies."  
  
“You could try shutting up,” Sunstreaker muttered and buried his face behind his engex.   
  
“I sense I’ve struck a sore spot.” Smokescreen shook his head and leaned back, effecting a casual pose Sunstreaker didn’t believe for a second. “You deserve it, you know. Happiness.”   
  
Sunstreaker scowled and downed the last of his engex, slamming the empty cup on the table. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, and shoved up from the table, fixing Smokescreen with a firm glare. “Try minding your own business for once.”   
  
Smokescreen moved faster than Sunstreaker could read, grabbing Sunstreaker’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Hey,” he said, tone soft and cajoling, like trying to calm a skittish voltaic cat. “I meant it. You and Ratchet. It’s a good match, a good thing. Try being happy, yeah?”   
  
It was always so hard to tell when Smokescreen was being genuine. Or if he was playing a long con of some kind. He had his fingers in every betting pool on the Lost Light. Maybe he was trying to bend the odds in his favor here, too.   
  
Sunstreaker wished he could outright trust Smokescreen. It would be nice to have a friend.   
  
“Yeah. Whatever.” Sunstreaker pulled his hand free. He left before Smokescreen could say anything else, well aware of the optics and visors watching him, their stares burning holes between his shoulderblades.   
  
He picked up the whispers. They weren’t trying to be subtle.   
  
“Ratchet deserves better than a traitor.”   
  
“Doesn’t deserve to wear that badge.”   
  
“Poor Ratchet. He must have been tricked.”   
  
Sunstreaker stared straight ahead. He said nothing, he acknowledged no one. His hands shook, but he wouldn’t let them form fists, and he swallowed his anger like the bitter engex it was.   
  
He was sorry he’d been Ratchet’s only choice. Ratchet did deserve better. Sunstreaker was the selfish one for wanting to have this, to believe even if only for a little while, that Ratchet might want him back. He wanted to hope he could be redeemed.   
  
He wished for a lot of things he didn’t deserve.   
  
He hated that the others kept reminding him of it.   
  


~

  
  
“So.”   
  
Ratchet groaned. “Don’t you start,” he said, without glancing toward the doorway, where waves of amusement wafted his direction.   
  
He didn’t have to look to know Drift was smirking at him, smug despite the fatigue still clinging to his frame. He’d been on triple overtime when the heat struck, as one of the last mechs in command standing.   
  
“Start what? Can’t I just come check on my friend now that he’s finally come out of the closet with his apparent lifetime partner?” There was accusation in Drift’s tone.   
  
Ratchet sighed and put down the box of bolts he was pretending to sort. Hiding, really, in the supply closet. He hated all of the ‘congratulations’ other mechs were tossing at him. He hated being congratulated for a lie.   
  
“I’m sparked,” he said as he cast Drift an askance look. “It’s complicated. Sunstreaker’s helping me out is all.”   
  
“Mmm.” Drift nodded slowly, his arms folded over his chassis, his lean casual against the door frame. “Is there someone I need to kill if Sunstreaker’s not the sire?”   
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “No, you stab-happy hippie, there’s no one you need to kill. It was an accident.” His face heated. As much as he trusted Drift, he wasn’t quite ready to admit the sire of his bitlets. “Like I said. Complicated. So hush.”   
  
Drift dragged his fingers across his lips. “Secret’s safe with me, Ratch. You know it.” He tilted his head, the amusement fading from his tone. “Sunstreaker, huh? You sure helping you is all it is?”   
  
“How should I know. I don’t read minds.” Ratchet grumped and glared at the supplies, idly stirring his fingers through the bolts. “He’s a better mech than others give him credit.”   
  
“Oh, I know that. We all have our demons.” Drift waved a hand, fingers tapping over his chestplate and the shadow of a badge that wasn’t there anymore. “You should tell him.”   
  
“Like frag I should!” Ratchet hissed, and he glared at Drift, wishing he could shoot lasers from his optics. “Don’t you help either.”   
  
Drift held up his hands and straightened, pushing off the frame. “You’re a grown mech. That’s not my place. I’m just saying, no one volunteers to help another mech in your predicament for the sake of it.” He folded his arms again, bouncing a little on his heelstruts.   
  
Ratchet shuttered his optics and leaned his forehead against the shelf. “It’s complicated,” he muttered.   
  
“So you’ve said.” Drift loudly cycled a ventilation. “Just be careful, all right? You know where to find me if you need me.”  
  
“I do.”   
  
“Good.” Drift clapped his hands together, and his field flickered out, pressing against Ratchet’s with comfort and warmth. “I get to be their godsire, right?”   
  
“Get out of here.”   
  
Drift chuckled and slipped free of the storage room, letting the door shut behind him. Silence wrapped around Ratchet once again. He dropped a hand to his abdomen, where he hadn’t begun to show, and wouldn’t for a little while yet.   
  
“Tell him,” Drift said, as though it were an easy thing to do.   
  
Ratchet was old. He was angry. He was bitter. Now, he was saddled with sparklings. What did he have to offer someone like Sunstreaker?  
  
Tell him.   
  
Frag that.   
  
He was lucky enough to have Sunstreaker’s friendship. He didn’t want to push it. And that was the final word.   
  


~

  
  
Ratchet did not know how to take care of himself.  
  
This was very, very frustrating for Bob.  
  
He didn't seem to understand he was sparked now, that he carried three precious bitlets inside him. He needed nutrients and energon and rest. He needed to build a nest and prepare. He needed a lot of things he wasn't getting.  
  
It was especially frustrating because Bob couldn't tell Ratchet or Sunstreaker things weren't being done properly. Sunstreaker needed to know to take care of their mate, but there was a swirl of hesitation about him. He didn't speak up like he should. He didn't push when he needed to.  
  
Someday, Bob was going to learn mechspeak. And then he was going to say all the things he needed to say. But that wasn't an option now. He needed a solution right now.  
  
Ratchet would just have to get used to Bob being underfoot. No matter how much he yelled or scowled or made Sunstreaker come get him. Someone needed to take care of Ratchet, and luckily, Bob was pretty good at taking care of the bigmechs. Look at Sunstreaker! He was already doing so much better. Not fully better. But lots better.  
  
That was because of Bob.  
  
Really. Someone should give him a medal. Or treats. A big basket of treats. He'd definitely bring that up as soon as he learned mechspeak.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Sunstreaker was Bob's, and Bob took pride in making sure his Sunstreaker was fed and rested and cuddled and loved. But now Bob had two mechs to keep alive, and Ratchet needed him slightly more, so Bob did what he had to do.  
  
He lurked around the medbay as much possible. Sunstreaker did, too. Which meant Bob didn't look so weird wandering around, but even if Sunstreaker wasn't there, Bob still trundled around underfoot, making his presence known.  
  
Like today.  
  
He hadn't seen Ratchet sit down once. Or consume so much as a cube of energon or a sip of coolant. Fatigue swirled around Ratchet's field in waves, but he kept grumping at First Aid and snapping at Ambulon, and no one wanted to poke him twice.  
  
Stubborn bigmechs. How did they manage to survive this long without a Bob to watch them?  
  
Bob tucked a big cube of energon in his secondary hand -- he'd snagged it from the shelf earlier when Ambulon wasn't paying attention -- and he watched, waiting for his moment. Agitation roiled around Ratchet like a storm cloud, building to a mighty thunder, and when it finally burst, the yell echoed around the medbay.   
  
Other medics ducked and covered. Ratchet stomped away, leaving tremors in his wake. Bob, however, wasn’t the least bit afraid.   
  
It was his chance.   
  
Ratchet stormed into his office, and Bob followed, scuttling in before Ratchet could slam the door in his face.  
  
"Bob!" Ratchet snapped as the door nearly clipped his aft. "What are you doing here? Where's Sunstreaker?"  
  
Bob ignored him and sat down, offering up the cube of energon and tilting his head. He knew it made him look cute. It always melted Sunstreaker.  
  
Ratchet’s thunderous expression melted into a light drizzle. He scrubbed his forehead. "That's not an answer. I don't know why I bother asking." He trudged past Bob and collapsed in his chair, fatigue wafting from him in heavy, anchoring waves.   
  
Bob moved to Ratchet's side, offering him the energon again. He chirped and urged it toward Ratchet pointedly.   
  
"You want me to drink that?" Ratchet asked.  
  
Bob clicked and whirred, giving the cube a little wobble. He waved his antennae for good measure. That always worked on Sunstreaker.   
  
Ratchet sighed, long and quiet, but accepted the cube. "Thank you, Bob." He patted Bob on the head and cracked open the energon, giving it a sip. "I'm not going to ask where you got this, because I'm sure I'm both not going to understand the answer, and I wouldn't like it."  
  
Well, he was right.  
  
Bob chittered a laugh and circled Ratchet's chair, giving him a sniff. He was still perilously underenergized, and he definitely lacked some nutrients. Bob would have to figure out how he could acquire some without being able to tell someone what he needed. The bitlets seemed strong, considering how small they were right now. That was a good thing.  
  
Ratchet was a strong mate and a stronger carrier. They would have strong, strong little ones for their new Hive.  
  
“Thank you,” Ratchet said with an audible vent of exhaustion. He reached out a hand and Bob nudged his head under it, purring as Ratchet gave him the good audial skritches. “You’re a good boy, Bob. Even if this is partly your fault.” He patted his abdomen for emphasis.   
  
Bob chirped back at him. It was his fault, and he was proud of it. A family at last! A family for him and his Sunstreaker. They could build a fine Hive, a fine family. It was going to be wonderful.   
  
“Yeah, you don’t sound the least bit apologetic about it either,” Ratchet scoffed.   
  
Nope. Why would he be? The war was over, right? That was what Sunstreaker kept telling him. The war was over, and maybe their home kept running into trouble, but the real danger was gone, yes? Perfect time to rebuild the Hive.   
  
Bob nuzzled Ratchet’s hand. He’d keep Ratchet here as long as he could, because Ratchet needed to rest.   
  
It was his very, very important job. A difficult, frustrating job, but very important.   
  
Sometimes, when Ratchet shooed him away and wouldn’t be dissuaded, Bob wandered off to help the other two sparked mechs on board. It was a sad and disappointing result for such a strong heat, Bob noticed. Only four mechs out of everyone on the ship? Not a good start to the Hive rebuilding, but better than zero.   
  
Perceptor, he of the interesting conversation, had been sparked. Bob wasn’t sure by who. There were always a lot of smells around Perceptor, and Bob kept getting distracted every time he tried to figure it out. Plus, Perceptor didn’t really like him sniffing around so much. He didn’t mind when Bob brought him energon though.   
  
He always gave Bob a treat or two. Perceptor was the best.   
  
“You’re a good boy, Bob,” Perceptor said with a soft little smile as he patted Bob, the other hand gently resting over his abdomen, protective even. He would make very smart bitlets.   
  
Bob hoped they’d be able to learn mechspeak and then they could teach him!  
  
Whirl was sparked, too. He was the only one who seemed to realize what that meant. He wandered all over the ship, demanding the good energon and the good chairs and taking long naps and getting a lot of rest. His bitlets were going to be strong and maybe a little weird, but Bob figured weird was good.   
  
Bob didn’t have to watch out for Whirl much. His sires were protective all on their own. The grumpy purple one and the cheerful blue one with the good candies. They stayed close to Whirl, either both at the same time, or at least one of them. They were good sires.   
  
Bob was proud of them.   
  
He had to be more careful around Ultra Magnus though. Bob didn’t know who had sired Ultra Magnus’ bitlet – poor Magnus only had one. A disappointing result, but still good. Still important! Every Hive benefited from even the smallest spark in Bob’s opinion.   
  
Ultra Magnus was a lot like Ratchet, though he took better care of himself. He rested, and he recharged, and he refueled. But he didn’t seem to have anyone looking after him, and he didn’t much like Bob trying to help either. He looked sad a lot.   
  
Bob didn’t know how to fix it, and he couldn’t ask for help. It worried him. He couldn’t help Ultra Magnus directly, so he did the best he could. He left gifts outside Ultra Magnus’ door, and then he pressed the call button and scurried away, watching from around the corner as Ultra Magnus retrieved them.   
  
He didn’t smile. Ultra Magnus didn’t really know how to smile, Bob realized. But he was pleased. His field said as much.   
  
For now, it was the best Bob could do.  
  
First Aid told him he was a good boy at least. Especially when Ratchet wasn’t looking. He’d sit down and get that itchy spot on Bob’s back armor, the one he couldn’t reach himself. His field was so nice and gentle, First Aid’s was, and he radiated approval.   
  
“Good boy,” First Aid would say after Bob had successfully delivered energon and got Ratchet to drink it. “He needs looking after, doesn’t he?”   
  
Bob clicked an affirmative.   
  
“It’s a good thing he has you and Sunstreaker.” First Aid’s visor lit up brightly, some of his alt-mode lights fluttering, and Bob knew it for the smile it was.   
  
Bob purred, and First Aid gave him another good scratch, and followed it up with a handful of treats. Because Bob was a very good boy, and Ratchet would always have Bob to look out for him now.   
  
Always.   
  


~

  
  
Ratchet was too old for this.  
  
He was past his prime. He should be retired, relaxing in some spa, not grimacing as he shuffled around the medbay, his internals aching from the constant reshuffling, all to make room for his carry. It was a dull, persistent throb, and there was no point in sneaking a pain chip because he knew it wouldn't help.  
  
A third of the way through his shift, and Ratchet had to give up and take a break, bracing one hand on a counter as the other reached for his lower back, rubbing two kinked cables beneath an armor seam. It helped. Marginally.  
  
He was going to demand a back rub from Sunstreaker. Maybe it'd help alleviate some of the kid's guilt.  
  
The ionized wash of a scan pummeled Ratchet from behind, tickling over his field. He narrowed his optics, glancing over his shoulder as First Aid stood there, hands on his hips.  
  
"You're sparked," he declared.  
  
"Brilliant deduction." Ratchet snorted. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide it forever, and that he shouldn't, but he'd thought it would take a little longer. Then again, First Aid had always been very perceptive. "It's Sunstreaker's."  
  
"I could have guessed that." First Aid stepped up behind him, and pushed Ratchet's hand aside, only to replace it with his own. Ratchet would have protested, but the soothing heat that immediately followed made him groan with appreciation. "You two have been dancing around each other for a long time."  
  
"That's ridiculous."  
  
"Is it?" First Aid's other hand joined the fray, gently palpating Ratchet's back and hitting him with low level scan pulses, no doubt looking for the most tense areas. "Honestly, it's always been more of a surprise to me that you two weren't together."  
  
Ratchet braced both hands on the counter, letting First Aid work. It eased the ache quite a lot, and some of the tension radiating through his frame abandoned him. Primus. He should have informed First Aid sooner.  
  
"It was that obvious?"  
  
"Maybe only to people who know you as well as I do."  
  
Except that Ratchet and Sunstreaker weren't actually together, so what did that say about their relationship if others had assumed they were?  
  
"Congratulations, by the way," First Aid said as his hands finished their soothing sweep, and he stepped back. "I know it probably wasn't in your plans, but if I'm any indication, you'll make a great caretaker."  
  
"It's terrible timing," Ratchet grumbled as he scrubbed his face. He turned around and vented easier when it didn't hurt as much to move.  
  
First Aid gave him a look, discernible even through facemask and visor. "It's never going to be good timing. You know that." He folded his arms, pinning Ratchet with a familiar serious stare. "You deserve to try and find happiness."  
  
A burst of fondness erupted in Ratchet's spark. He very nearly took First Aid into his arms for an embrace, save he knew the other medic wouldn't be amenable.  
  
"I appreciate the encouragement," Ratchet said.  
  
"You could also use some aluminum and a huge dose of selenium. You're running really low." First Aid's tone was chastising, hinting of 'you should know better'.  
  
Ratchet's lips quirked into a smile. "Yes, sir."  
  
First Aid's visor narrowed. "You need to rest, too."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind, sir."  
  
"You're mocking me."  
  
"Not at all." Ratchet slung an arm across First Aid's shoulders and steered him back toward the medbay. "You do realize that if I'm sparked, that means you're going to be chief sooner rather than later."  
  
First Aid snorted. "You've been saying that for decades. I'm not going to hold my vents."  
  


~

  
  
Sunstreaker stared into the mirror and glared at a smudge on his shoulder. He attacked it ferociously. He refused to walk out of the habsuite looking anything less than perfect.  
  
Today was too important.  
  
"You look fine." Ratchet appeared in Sunstreaker's peripheral vision, in the mirror over Sunstreaker's shoulder.  
  
"It's not enough to look fine," Sunstreaker said.   
  
He squinted, scrutinizing his reflection. He didn't deserve Ratchet as he was. He didn't want to hear it from others. He needed to look like someone Ratchet could be proud to stand beside.  
  
Ratchet's mouth twisted into an expression Sunstreaker couldn't identify. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”   
  
“Don’t I?” Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. He wished he had better supplies.   
  
“Why would you?”   
  
Sunstreaker turned around, glancing past Ratchet to see Bob sitting behind them, looking cute as he cocked his head and waited patiently. “No one really believes we’re together, you know.”   
  
“That’s the point of this excursion.” Ratchet cupped his face and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. “Besides, in the end, who cares? It’s not their life, it’s ours.”   
  
Sunstreaker wasn’t convinced.   
  
“You should pick someone else,” he said. “There are a lot of other mechs on this ship who’d be better for this.”   
  
Ratchet shook his head. “Who else could I trust for this, hm?” He smiled, soft and gentle, and turned away. “Come on. Let’s go.”   
  
Sunstreaker wasn’t sure if he should take that as a compliment or not. Did he mean it in the way Sunstreaker was very trustworthy to him? Or because Sunstreaker knew Bob was involved, Ratchet was the only one Sunstreaker dared trust?   
  
“Whatever you want,” Sunstreaker said. It was the safest reply.   
  
They ventured out of Sunstreaker’s habsuite, where Ratchet had come to meet him after-shift, and with Bob in tow, headed for Swerve’s. There was no better place on the Lost Light to make a public appearance. They needed to be seen together, now that their quote-unquote secret relationship was no longer secret. They needed to sell the lie.   
  
Sunstreaker’s internals squirmed. He hated how much he so desperately wanted the lie to be truth.   
  
Bob trotted along at their feet. Ever since Ratchet’s heat, Sunstreaker hadn’t needed to use a leash for Bob. Instead, the hard part became dragging him away from Ratchet. Bob never wanted to go far from the medic, and Sunstreaker didn’t have an explanation for that. Even now, he trundled along at Ratchet’s other side, keeping Ratchet safe between Sunstreaker and Bob.   
  
He seemed happy, but if someone who Bob didn’t outright like passed by, he growled or hissed, no matter how much Sunstreaker snapped at him. He didn’t try to bite or attack, but there was a tangible aggression in his stance, and his armor fluffed up, like he was trying to make himself threatening.   
  
“Why is he so defensive?” Ratchet asked with a small frown.   
  
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been acting weird ever since… well, you know.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Guilt still clogged up his intake. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do to apologize for it.   
  
Ratchet chuckled. “Maybe he’s struck a claim on me then.”   
  
“Why doesn’t it bother you?” Sunstreaker asked, blurting out the question before he could convince himself otherwise.   
  
Ratchet audibly sighed. “Because I don’t see any point in letting it bother me. It’s done. It’s not his fault or my fault or your fault. It’s a thing that happened, and we all need to deal with it. And I know it wasn’t done out of menace.” He looked down at Bob, and Sunstreaker swore there was affection on his face. “Besides, it’s not a bad thing to have such a determined protector.” He leaned down and patted Bob on top of the head, and Bob chirped up at him.   
  
“He’s very good at that,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
“I’ve noticed.” Ratchet laughed, quiet, but genuinely amused. Sunstreaker didn’t know if he’d ever heard Ratchet laugh like that before.   
  
His spark thumped faster in his chassis.   
  
They arrived at Swerve’s, and after a shift change into graveyard, it was lively and bustling with mechs. They stepped into chaos, and Sunstreaker gently took Ratchet’s elbow, steering him toward the only unoccupied table he could see in the corner. It looked to have been recently abandoned – empty cups and detritus lingering around the seats.   
  
There was no point to trying to be stealthy. Everyone noticed their arrival. Optics and visors swiveled their direction, and Sunstreaker’s armor prickled at all the attention. He’d worked so hard to fade into the background while onboard, and now he was suddenly back in the spotlight.   
  
He hated it.   
  
But for Ratchet?   
  
Anything.   
  
He cleared off the table before they sat down, and before they even got comfortable, Swerve was there, a tray of drinks in one hand and a big smile on his face.   
  
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Lost Light’s newest star couple,” he said with a waggle of his orbital ridges. “What can I get for you?”   
  
“Whatever’s on tap,” Ratchet said.   
  
“Same for me,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
Swerve’s grin broadened, impossibly wide. “That’s adorable.” He flashed half his visor in a wink. “I’ll be right back.” He looked down as Bob popped his head up from beneath the table. “And I’ll bring something for you, too.”   
  
Bob wriggled appreciatively. He adored Swerve, contrary to Sunstreaker’s personal opinions, and Sunstreaker suspected it was because Swerve fed him treats.   
  
Swerve left. Sunstreaker leaned against the table and tried not to notice all the stares they had attracted.   
  
“You all right?” Ratchet asked.   
  
“That’s not a question I’m sure I can answer,” Sunstreaker said, honestly. Because he was, in so many ways, not all right. He was getting better, or at least thought he was, but he didn’t know if being all right was a part of his future.   
  
Ratchet reached across the table, and his hand fell over Sunstreaker’s, warm and affectionate. “In general or in this moment?”   
  
“Maybe both.” Sunstreaker looked at their hands, their tangled fingers, and wished it were real. “You know I don’t have the best reputation right now.”   
  
“I’ve never held that against you.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s gaze darted toward the bar at large, noting all of the stares, the whispers, the narrowed optics. He wanted to yank his hand away from Ratchet’s, as much as he never wanted to let go.   
  
“But it’s not my opinion you’re bothered about,” Ratchet added with a soft sigh. “You worry too much about what other people think, Sunstreaker.”   
  
“Some might argue I don’t worry enough.”   
  
“Worry about what?” Swerve appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, laden with different drinks than before. He slid two mugs of engex on the table in front of them with practiced ease.   
  
“Worry about what you might be putting in these drinks,” Ratchet grunted as he lifted his cup and squinted at it. “This doesn’t look cheap.”   
  
“I don’t serve anything cheap, thank you very much,” Swerve retorted as he planted his empty hand on his hip. “And that’s not cheap either. It’s a congratulations drink, Doc. Congrats on finally getting laid.”   
  
Ratchet’s optics narrowed.   
  
Sunstreaker glared at Swerve. “Don’t be crass.”   
  
“Have you met me?” Swerve lifted his orbital ridges and his gaze flicked between them. “Though I have to say… you two? I don’t see it. I’m pretty good at picking out secrets and good gossip, and this one surprised everyone.”   
  
“I don’t care if you see it or not, it’s happened,” Ratchet said with a scowl. He snatched up his engex and took a long drink of it.   
  
Swerve held up his free hand. “Hey, no offense. Just calling it like I see it. I mean, in comparison to the touchy-feely prom couple over there, you two don’t look very coupleish.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to Chromedome and Rewind near the bar, one in the other’s lap.   
  
Sunstreaker sneered.   
  
Ratchet snorted again. “If you think I’m going to act like that in public, then you don’t know me at all, Swerve.”   
  
“Hm. You may have a point.” Swerve tapped his bottom lip with a finger. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, who am I to judge? Just glad you two are happy together.”   
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “Thanks for your approval.”   
  
“Not that we needed it,” Sunstreaker muttered.   
  
Swerve chuckled and left, but not before laying a tray of treats down in front of Bob, which he started scarfing noisily. Sunstreaker scowled and stared into his engex, the taste of it like ashes on his glossa after Swerve’s unwelcome commentary.   
  
“Ignore him,” Ratchet said, as if he’d read Sunstreaker’s mind.   
  
“Why? He’s not wrong. This is a farce, and we both know it.” Sunstreaker didn’t look at Ratchet, but he did down the entire cup of engex in a few quick gulps. He needed the burn, his insides twisting and gnarling into thorns.   
  
Ratchet stared at him, and something in his expression spoke of exasperation. “We’re friends at the very least,” he said, and his tone softened, turned gentle, like trying to calm a skittish mechanimal. “We don’t have to decide the definition. We’re not a farce.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s spark throbbed. He tightened his fingers around Ratchet’s, wishing he could hold on forever. He wanted to believe there was a deeper meaning.   
  
“Say it,” Ratchet insisted, squeezing Sunstreaker’s fingers in return. “You and me, and Bob, too. We’re not a farce.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s lips twitched toward a smile. “Alright,” he said. “Whatever you say, Ratchet. We’re something real.”   
  
What that something was, however, he still didn’t know.   
  


***


	4. Chapter 4

Time passed.  
  
Ratchet wasn’t any better at caring for himself. But at least he started allowing Bob to take care of him. He took the energon Bob brought him without protest, and he sat down for a rest if Bob hovered at his feet and whined pointedly.   
  
The bitlets within Ratchet grew and grew. He was larger than the other sparked mechs, even Ultra Magnus. Bob thought it was something to be proud of. Ratchet didn’t seem to think so. He grumped about it constantly, and one night, he and Sunstreaker hid themselves in the medical rooms.   
  
Bob wasn’t allowed to go inside. He had to sit on the other side of the door and wait. So he planted his aft and growled at anyone who passed by. Well, not anyone. First Aid came by and lingered and gave Bob a good scratch behind his audials. Bob purred.   
  
“Ratchet’s not answering me,” First Aid said as Bob barely kept from turning over on his back so First Aid could get that itchy spot on his belly. “What’re they doing in there, hm? I know they aren’t fooling around. Ratchet wouldn’t do that.”   
  
Bob chirruped and bumped his head harder under First Aid’s fingers. Silly bigmechs. They always talked to him like Bob could talk back. They asked him questions, too. Bob wanted to answer but he couldn’t.   
  
He would never understand bigmechs.   
  
“I wish Ratchet would let me help him,” First Aid said with a soft sigh and a melancholy whiff in his field. He gave Bob another good scratch before he fully stood. “You come get me if they need help, all right?”   
  
Bob nodded and wriggled his antennae.   
  
First Aid chuckled and left him be. A few other mechs passed by, but no one stopped to knock or make an attempt to get through the door. Bob was a good guardian. No one wanted to cross him. He kept his mates safe.   
  
When the door finally opened, Ratchet came out, and he looked smaller than he did before. His belly was flatter, and he only looked as far along as the other sparked mechs. Bob didn’t know what they’d done, but when he sniffed Ratchet and tasted his field, he was still sparked. That was the important part.   
  
“We won’t be able to hide it forever,” Sunstreaker was saying as they came out and Ratchet started rubbing at his lower back.   
  
“No. But the longer the better.” Ratchet scowled, but there wasn’t any anger in his field. Just fatigue and resignation.   
  
Bob wished he were happy about adding more to their potential Hive. Ratchet was going to be a very good carrier, and Sunstreaker was going to be a very good mate-protector, and Bob was going to make sure they were all very safe. He wished he understood bigmechs sometimes.   
  
“You have to trust someone,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
Ratchet curled a hand around Sunstreaker’s arm and gave him a squeeze. “I’m trusting you.”   
  
Bob watched them, their energy fields swirling together, mingling and warm and affectionate. They looked at each other with such love in their optics, but there was a weird distance. Bob wished he could tell them how they felt about each other. They were so blind to it right now.   
  
Silly bigmechs.   
  
They’d figure it out eventually.   
  
Ratchet started taking the proper supplements – Bob could tell because he started smelling well-fed instead of undernourished. Bob kept bringing him energon anyway. It was his job to take care of his mate.   
  
One time, he caught Ratchet napping at his desk. It was good! Ratchet needed far more rest than he allowed himself.   
  
Bob didn’t want anything to disturb him. So he carefully borrowed one of the extra mesh blankets from the closet, and he crept back into Ratchet’s office, as quiet as when he snuck out of his and Sunstreaker’s room.   
  
Bob gently tucked the blanket around Ratchet’s sleeping frame, and lightly stroked Ratchet’s back with his secondary arms. Ratchet made a really cute sound of comfort, and fell into a deeper recharge.   
  
Bob chirred a quiet song and nuzzled Ratchet as much as he could, getting a good, curious sniff. Three little bitlets, three little ones for the Hive. He was so happy. They were getting stronger and stronger every day.   
  
As much as he wanted to curl at Ratchet’s feet and nap himself, he couldn’t right now. He had to make sure no one disturbed Ratchet. Reluctantly, Bob sat outside Ratchet’s door instead, and barred anyone from going inside.   
  
Ratchet needed his rest. That was most important. Bob refused to budge until hours later, when Ratchet himself rose from his nap, and opened the door, in the midst of folding the blanket Bob had brought for him.   
  
“This was you?” he asked as Bob straightened and chirped up at him, head canted in greeting.   
  
He patted Ratchet’s knee with one of his secondary hands and chirruped again, antennae twitching in the closest thing he had to a grin.   
  
Ratchet smiled at him. He was so handsome when he smiled. Bob loved it when Ratchet smiled. He hoped Ratchet did it more often. He knew Sunstreaker loved it, too.   
  
“Thank you.” Ratchet rubbed his fingers over Bob’s head, his field mingling with Bob’s. “You’re a good boy.”   
  
Yes. Yes, he was.   
  
The very best boy.   
  


~

  
  
There was an itch.   
  
It started in his valve and radiated out from there. It wasn’t an itch that needed scratching, it was an itch that needed fulfilling.   
  
Heat gathered in his pelvis, spread outward, flooding his sensory net. Ratchet tried to focus on inventory, but couldn’t. His thoughts kept drifting toward pleasure. Toward the sensation of a spike filling his valve, or a wet glossa lapping at his anterior node, or clever fingers stroking his seams.   
  
Specifically, Sunstreaker doing all of the above.   
  
His face flooded hot. He shifted in place, trying to ignore the need clawing at him, up and down his backstrut. His vents came in shallow gasps, and lubricant started to pool against his valve panel, his sensors throbbing. His field flared wildly, out of his control.   
  
Ratchet managed to ignore the need for about five minutes, though he made no progress in his counting, before he surrendered to the demands of his frame. He cursed his current circumstances and powered down his inventory pad.   
  
“I’m taking a break,” he told Ambulon as he stormed out of the stock room and headed toward his quarters.   
  
“A long one?” Ambulon called after him, and Ratchet could have sworn he sounded smug and amused.   
  
He would be getting the worst tasks later.   
  
Ratchet pinged Sunstreaker as he stomped into his quarters, making a beeline for his berthroom. He couldn’t decide if it was anger or need boiling in his lines. Maybe a bit of both.   
  
“I hope to Primus you’re not on shift right now because I need a big favor,” Ratchet snarled into the comm.   
  
“I’m not on shift.”   
  
Ratchet paused and turned in the doorway to his berthroom, blinking at the sight of Sunstreaker behind him, sitting in a chair with a datapad in one hand and Bob snoozing at his feet. How had he missed them?  
  
“What’s the favor?” Sunstreaker set his datapad aside and stood, concern shadowing his handsome face. “What’s wrong? What do you need? Are the bitlets okay?”   
  
Ratchet held up a hand. “Calm down. It’s not that serious.” He shifted from foot to foot, indecision knocking at rationality before he threw the latter to the wind. “I’m carrying.”   
  
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. “Um. Yes, you are…?”   
  
Ratchet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor. “I’m carrying, and my coding is going haywire, and I’m so aroused I can’t think straight. Would you mind…?” He couldn’t bring himself to look.   
  
Sunstreaker stepped closer, footsteps audible across the ground. “Anything you need, Ratchet. I meant that.”   
  
“I’m not about to assume that means you’re going to frag me whenever I ask,” Ratchet retorted, dropping his hand to give Sunstreaker a sour look. “I don’t want to be some kind of pity case or make you a… an interfacing toy.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s hands landed on his shoulders, gentle as they slid inward, cupping Ratchet’s intake. “Anything you need,” he repeated as he brought their foreheads together and drizzled his field along Ratchet’s, the taste of a growing arousal humming against the desperate want in Ratchet’s lines. “What do you want? My mouth? My valve? My spike? I’m offering all of the above.”   
  
Ratchet groaned. His knees wobbled as his groin gave a sharp throb, his vents quickening. He wanted it all, and Sunstreaker was going to make him choose. He clutched at Sunstreaker’s hips, his back hitting the door frame and dragging Sunstreaker with him.   
  
“Do you need me to pick for you?” Sunstreaker asked, and where his tone had been plaintive before, it was now sultry and inviting. It tiptoed down Ratchet’s backstrut and set the pool of want in his belly to boiling.   
  
Lips brushed over Ratchet’s chevron. He tightened his grip, a bolt of want sending a harsh throb through his entire frame. He hadn’t realized his chevron was so sensitive that a single kiss could make him weak.   
  
“Just do something, frag it,” Ratchet managed, sounding far less gruff than he intended. It took all he had not to throw Sunstreaker to the ground, claw at his panels, and start devouring him.   
  
Sunstreaker stroked the curve of his jaw. “Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, and he slotted their mouths together. The kiss wasn’t at all gentle. It was the kiss of someone who wanted to claim, to taste, to take their partner straight to pleasure as soon as possible.   
  
Ratchet moaned into it, clutching harder at Sunstreaker, stumbling off the door frame and backward toward the berth. Sunstreaker chased him, deepening the kiss, until the door closed behind him, trapping Bob in the outer room.   
  
Ah, wise choice.   
  
Ratchet tipped backward onto the berth with a bounce and a loud warning creak of the berth’s stabilizing frame. He expected Sunstreaker to fall down after him, but instead, Sunstreaker’s mouth abandoned him to slide down, ex-venting hot and wet over Ratchet’s chassis.   
  
One hand dipped between Ratchet’s thighs, fingers rubbing over his hot panels in a flirting caress. “Open?” Sunstreaker asked, his ex-vents fogging Ratchet’s chestplate while his fingertips swirled an arousing pattern.   
  
His panels snapped aside embarrassingly quick. Ratchet threw an arm over his optics, trying to hide the desperation in his face, though it was obvious in his field. His spike sprang into view, pressurizing in an instant, and wet drizzled out of his valve, his nodes engorged and flickering.   
  
Sunstreaker’s engine rumbled with appreciation, and his field blanketed Ratchet’s with equal lust and arousal. He stroked Ratchet’s hips, his palms hot and careful, and then a hot mouth wrapped around Ratchet’s spike, suckling first at the tip before taking him to the root.   
  
Ratchet shoved his knuckles into his mouth to muffle his shout. His hips rocked up, heels digging against the side of the berth, as he sank deeper into Sunstreaker’s mouth, the head of his spike squeezed around Sunstreaker’s intake.   
  
Ratchet melted into the berth, pleasure erupting through his sensory lines in a charged burst. Overload shattered through his restraint, bowed his backstrut, and he spilled into Sunstreaker’s intake without a chance to give warning, his spike throbbing and pulsing on Sunstreaker’s glossa.   
  
Ratchet moaned, burying as much of the noise behind his fist, though his fans noisily roared. Sunstreaker sucked him gently, through every last spurt of overload, his fingers gently stroking Ratchet’s inner thighs. Only then did he let Ratchet slip from his mouth, his glossa sweeping over his lips as he looked up at Ratchet.   
  
“Better?”   
  
“Primus, Sunstreaker.” Ratchet sucked in a few vents, processor spinning from the abrupt surge of pleasure. “You didn’t have to do that.”   
  
“I wanted to.” He pressed a kiss to the join of Ratchet’s hip and thigh. “That wasn’t enough to clear your charge, was it?”   
  
Ratchet worked his intake, trying to calm himself from the rampant surge of arousal still racing through his lines. “Well, no but--”  
  
His reply died as Sunstreaker’s head dipped back down, and now lips and glossa were focused on Ratchet’s valve, lapping and laving him with moist softness. Sunstreaker mouthed at his anterior node, gave it a light suckle. He traced his glossa around Ratchet’s rim and flicked it over his exterior nodes.   
  
Ratchet fisted the berthcovers and clamped his mouth shut, trying to seal his moans behind his denta. His vents came in sharper bursts as the heat in his groin flared into an inferno. His thighs quivered as Sunstreaker licked and sucked at him, paying the sweetest attention to Ratchet’s anterior node.   
  
And then he slid two fingers into Ratchet, curving them at the perfect angle to rub-rub-rub on that interior sensor cluster, and Ratchet shattered all over again. He bucked up against Sunstreaker’s mouth, squeezed down on his fingers, and overloaded, valve spasming hungrily. Heat flushed his frame, spark strobing a pattern of need inside him.  
  
Pleasure zipped through his sensory net. His spike was spent, but his valve continued to ripple and clench, and the coil in his abdomen twisted and tightened.   
  
It wasn’t enough, Ratchet groaned.   
  
Sunstreaker lifted his head, licking Ratchet’s lubricant from his lips, though his fingers continued to stroke Ratchet on the inside. He had the perfect pressure, too. Gentle enough not to overwhelm sensors, but firm enough to keep him hovering on the precipice of a future overload.   
  
“That doesn’t look like it was enough,” Sunstreaker said, and he made the mistake of leaning in close enough for Ratchet to get a grip of his collar fairing and drag Sunstreaker into a hot, sloppy kiss. One that tasted of his own spill and his own lubricant.   
  
Sunstreaker almost clattered down on top of him, but caught his weight on the berth at the last second. His hand vanished from Ratchet’s valve, which was quite all right because Ratchet drapced his thighs across Sunstreaker’s hips, dragging him close enough to rut against Sunstreaker’s panel.   
  
“No, it wasn’t,” Ratchet said against Sunstreaker’s lips. “Frag me right now, if you don’t mind, or I’ll be forced to look elsewhere.”   
  
Light flashed in Sunstreaker’s optics. “I’m here now,” he growled, the low, rumbling bass vibrating up and down Ratchet’s backstrut. “You don’t need anyone else.”   
  
Ratchet moaned, the words tingling in his cortex, tapping away at all the things he wanted, but didn’t dare say aloud. He dragged Sunstreaker’s mouth to his, hips rocking and urging Sunstreaker to take him. A request Sunstreaker obeyed as his spike sank into Ratchet’s valve, slow and filling, igniting every sensory node along the way.   
  
He buried the embarrassment. This was normal, he knew. An increased urge to interface was common with sparked mechs. Perhaps not to this level of intensity, but still. It was normal, and that was the hill he’d die on, and hopefully Sunstreaker knew it as well, so he wouldn’t be burdened with Ratchet’s desire for him.   
  
Ratchet had asked for far too much already.   
  


~

  
  
Sunstreaker twitched. His armor unconsciously drew taut to his frame. A presence loomed behind him, not threatening, but he was aware of it nonetheless.   
  
“Something you need, sir?” he asked, erring on the side of respect, though it would always be odd to address Drift as such, considering Sunstreaker could still remember a battle he led against Deadlock, and how the Decepticon had slaughtered his unit.   
  
Drift chuckled. “For you to never call me that again,” he said, and slid closer, into Sunstreaker’s space, within field-reading range. He lowered his vocals, perhaps to as not be heard. “And to say thank you.”   
  
Sunstreaker blinked and looked up. “Thank you?” he repeated, forehead crinkling, confusion peppering his spark. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done to earn Drift’s gratitude.   
  
Drift nodded slowly. He leaned against the console and pointed at the screen, as though they were discussing something official. “For assisting Ratchet in a way I can’t. He needs someone right now.”   
  
“Oh.” Sunstreaker stared at the monitor, rather than Drift’s face, reeling in his field so Drift could read very little of it. “Ratchet is a friend. I owe him a lot. It’s the least I can do.” It was a little weird. He’d assumed for so long that Drift and Ratchet were romantically involved, and while Ratchet had debunked that, it still felt weird.   
  
“Right.” Drift drummed his fingers on the top of the console, made a contemplative noise in his intake. “Just take care of him.”   
  
“I will,” Sunstreaker said, swallowing down the anger from the implication that he’d do anything but.   
  
Drift leaned back, patting him on the shoulder. “I knew you would.” He offered a reassuring smile, and then walked away, continuing his patrol around the interior of the bridge, passing by others on shift.   
  
That sounded like approval, Sunstreaker supposed. Which was better than the alternative.   
  
Drift was so fragging weird.   
  
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip and got back to work.   
  


~

  
  
The unusual symptoms didn’t stop with the sudden and impossible to ignore need for pleasure and company. If they had, perhaps he would have ignored them. But they didn’t, and the next time Ratchet drew his daily ration, flavored to his specifications, another odd symptom reared its ugly head.   
  
It didn’t taste right, he realized after a sip. He wrinkled his nose. There was something missing, something he needed to chase away the bitterness.   
  
“What’s wrong?”   
  
Ratchet glared into the cube. “Something’s missing.” He moved to the minerals cabinet and rifled through it, skimming the labels until something called out to him.   
  
Selenium? Why did that sound absolutely delicious? He’d never liked Selenium before. It wasn’t something carrying mechs craved either.  
  
He wanted it, however. So he grabbed the vial and sprinkled some into his cube, giving the pale green a glittery, metallic look. He gave it a sniff, and his mouth filled with lubricant. Yes. This was it exactly.   
  
“Selenium?” First Aid peered over his shoulder at the vial’s label. “Why in Primus’ name are you flavoring your energon with Selenium?”   
  
Ratchet took a sip, and his tank grumbled appreciatively. “The bitlet wants it apparently.”   
  
“That’s weird,” First Aid said. His field fluttered over Ratchet’s with confusion and concern. “How’re your scans coming out? Normal across the board?”   
  
Ratchet gave his successor a raised orbital ridge. “I  _am_  a medic, you know.”   
  
“And medics are the worst patients,” First Aid retorted with folded arms and a stubborn stance. “Especially you. Also, you didn’t answer my question. As a medic, you’d know our frames require Selenium only in trace amounts. If the bitlet wants it, there might be a problem.”   
  
Ratchet finished off his energon and scowled. “Yes, thank you. What I needed with my morning energon was a lecture.” He set the cube aside, and First Aid tracked the motion, his field flexing out with a heavier concern. “I’ll run the scan now, sir.”   
  
“Be grumpy with me all you want, it’s not going to stop me from worrying about you.” First Aid’s visor flashed, but the affection in his field did not waver. “Scan.”   
  
Ratchet set his jaw, but First Aid wasn’t wrong, so he turned his focus inward and performed the scan. The wash of focus through his frame would never not be an odd sensation, and he waited with some impatience for the results to ping back.   
  
When they did, his field flushed ice cold.   
  
“What? What’s wrong?” First Aid asked, his arms unfolding.   
  
Ratchet hadn’t been quick enough to retract the shock from his field. “Nothing,” he said, in a tone no one would have believed. He backpedaled, out of First Aid’s reach. “I’m fine, like I told you I was. I just remembered I have datawork I need to finish.”   
  
First Aid’s visor narrowed. “That didn’t feel like nothing.” His field reached out, carefully touching the edges of Ratchet’s own.   
  
Ratchet shut that down so fast, First Aid reared back as if he’d been slapped. No. Absolutely not. No one could know about this.   
  
Or at least, no one could know as long as Ratchet could keep the secret. At the very least, he had to tell Sunstreaker first.   
  
“It’s personal, and it’s private,” Ratchet snapped. “Don’t you have inventory to be doing?”   
  
First Aid visibly hesitated before he took a step back. “I finished that last week, but sure, I’ll go do it again. Why not?” He spun on a heelstrut and gave Ratchet a backward wave. “When you feel like accepting someone else’s help, you know where to find me.”   
  
Ratchet did not feel guilty for long. Anxiety settled about him in waves. He spun opposite of First Aid and made a beeline for his office, pinging Sunstreaker’s comm as he did. Whether or not Sunstreaker was on shift didn’t matter. This couldn’t wait.   
  
Bob lifted his head when Ratchet burst into his office, chirping a mournful, worried sound at Ratchet. He scuttled out from the nest he’d built himself in the corner, and half-climbed into Ratchet’s lap after Ratchet dropped heavily into his chair.   
  
Ratchet sighed and buried his face in one hand, letting the other rub gently over Bob’s head, taking comfort in the Insecticon’s nearness.   
  
“It’s your fault,” he murmured, but it was with fatigue rather than anger. He could no more blame Bob for obeying his instincts, than Ratchet could blame himself for the push of his own coding. “None of us could have known.”   
  


~

  
  
Sunstreaker’s vents caught. He stared at Ratchet as if he’d never seen the medic before, and he rebooted his audial sensors on the off chance he’d misheard the medic.   
  
“… What?”   
  
Ratchet sighed.   
  
Lines of stress and fatigue creased his face. He had Bob half in his lap, the Insecticon making distressed noises of concern. He kept bringing Ratchet energon and blankets and treats, as if he thought one of them might help, and when none of those worked, he planted himself in Ratchet’s lap and didn’t move.   
  
It would have been cute, if the situation weren’t so absurd and disastrous.   
  
“I’m not carrying a pod,” Ratchet said, slowly and carefully, as if Sunstreaker’s confusion stemmed from incomprehension. “I’m carrying three eggs. Three which are no doubt Insecticon in nature because Cybertronians don’t birth eggs.”   
  
Sunstreaker swallowed over a lump in his intake. “Maybe it’s just three pods?” he asked, tentative, hopeful, desperate even. He scrubbed the heels of his hands down his thighs.   
  
Ratchet shook his head. He stared at the desk, absently petting Bob’s finials. “No. They are mature enough now that I can scan their coding. They are eggs, and they are most definitely partially Insecticon.”   
  
“I didn’t know that was possible,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
“None of us did.” Ratchet rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “But that’s the reality of the situation. I’m carrying three hybrid bitlets.”   
  
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip. “What do you want to do?” he asked, and hoped he was not being indelicate, and Ratchet understood what he was asking.   
  
“I’m keeping them, obviously. Barring the fact our population is dangerously low, I want them,” Ratchet said. His free hand dropped down to his abdomen, cupping the slight rise behind his grill protectively. “Starting a family this way had never been in the plans, but then, neither had a planet-wide, millennia long war.”   
  
How true.   
  
Sunstreaker’s unease lightened. He wasn’t sure if he could call it relief. It was too soon to tell.   
  
“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to continue with the ruse that they are yours. At least, as long as I can anyway,” Ratchet said. His gaze went a little distant, unfocused as he stared out toward the medbay proper. “Once they’re born, the truth might be impossible to hide, but maybe we’ll have a plan of action then.”   
  
Sunstreaker nodded, though Ratchet couldn’t see it. “Whatever you want,” he said, because it was the easiest answer he had to give. “Even after they’re born, too. I mean. Bob and I, we’re responsible, so whatever you need, whatever you want, we’ll do it.”   
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and dragged his gaze back to Sunstreaker. “Thank you.” He absently rubbed his abdomen again. “Though this does explain why I expanded more quickly than the others. They’re only carrying a single pod. I’ll get far bigger than them eventually.”   
  
“Will that make it obvious?” Sunstreaker asked.   
  
“It might.” Ratchet tilted his head, optics dimming. “I can remove more of the duplicate internals to make more room for their growth. First Aid and Ambulon might ask curious questions, but no one else will be aware enough to ask questions.”   
  
Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m a twin. You could always tell people they’re twins. That’s believable. Isn’t it?”   
  
Ratchet’s expression brightened. “Sunny, you’re brilliant,” he declared, and his lips curved in a relieved grin. “Yes, that’s perfect. Between that and removing my extra equipment, no one should be none the wiser.”   
  
Sunstreaker hoped the heat flushing his body didn’t carry to his face, betraying his embarrassment. “Anything I can do to help.”   
  
“Does that include moving in with me?”   
  
Sunstreaker blinked. Bob looked up at Ratchet as well, antennae canted forward, releasing a little chirrup of confusion.   
  
“What?”   
  
Ratchet leaned back in the chair, giving Bob more room to take up residence in his lap, his back feet scrabbling against the floor. Sometimes, Bob just didn’t realize how much larger he was than them.   
  
“Bob stalks me as it is,” Ratchet said, though at least his tone was fond as Bob chittered at him and nuzzled against his belly. “And eventually, I’m going to get to the point I’ll need help, as much as I hate admitting that,” the last was added with a grumble. “And if you two were here, all of that would be easier.”   
  
“It would help with your cover story, too,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
Ratchet nodded. He didn’t look at Sunstreaker though, he focused on Bob instead. His armor slicked tight to his frame, almost as if he were embarrassed or worried. He had nothing to be ashamed about.   
  
This was all Sunstreaker’s fault.   
  
“If you want us here, we’ll be here.” Sunstreaker spread his hands and aimed for a reassuring smile. He didn’t know if he managed it. “Whatever you want, Ratchet.”   
  
Ratchet’s armor loosened by a few noticeable degrees. His field licked out, warm with affection and comfort. “Thank you.”   
  
He didn’t owe them any gratitude. If anything, Sunstreaker and Bob owed him a lifetime of apologies. Whatever he wanted, he could have.   
  
Anything.   
  


***


	5. Chapter 5

Bob was completely and utterly relieved.   
  
No more trotting back and forth between his and Sunstreaker’s room and their mate’s. No more stalking Ratchet around to make sure he was safe. From now on, he and Sunstreaker would be close to their mate. They shared a space.   
  
Bob could build a nest here. Ratchet’s habsuite was twice as large as his and Sunstreaker’s, and had one really good nook beneath the table shoved in the corner. It was covered in bits of machinery and old datapads and dust, so Bob was fairly confident no one would bother it.   
  
He was stealthy. He was careful. He started to gather materials to build the nest. But only when Sunstreaker was with Ratchet. Someone needed to be with their mate at all times, to protect him and bring him energon and make sure he rested and rub his back and his feet and to pet the growing bitlets.   
  
Right now, Sunstreaker could take care of himself. Bob allowed Sunstreaker out of his sight without a whine or a look of sadness. Sunstreaker was their gather-mate, their earnings-mate.   
  
Bob was protector-mate. So Bob stayed with Ratchet, their carry-mate, at all times. Except when Sunstreaker was around, then Bob took on the role of gather-mate. Though they shoved him out of the berthroom when Ratchet was smelling hot and needy.   
  
How disappointing.   
  
Bob would have liked to keep contributing to the new batch, but they didn’t seem to want his help. They wanted him as gather-mate and protector-mate, but not as seed-mate. At least, not anymore.   
  
Ah, well. He would do his part regardless. His Hive needed him and that was what mattered most.   
  
Besides, Ratchet had a bigger berth than Sunstreaker, and it could fit all three of them. Bob was happiest when they all squeezed on top of it, and Bob could look after both of his mates as they slept. He liked to sniff at Ratchet’s belly and croon – quietly, quietly – to his bitlets.   
  
If Ratchet and Sunstreaker went anywhere together, though, Bob was with them. He had to be! Ratchet wasn’t the only one who needed protecting. Other mechs kept giving Sunstreaker mean looks, and Bob did not like that one bit.   
  
It was worse in Swerve’s, because there were a lot of mechs around. Some kept to glares and nasty looks, and Bob glared right back and bared his denta a couple of times. It was enough to keep most of the bigmechs away. They didn’t like his denta. Too sharp, First Aid had teased him once.   
  
Sometimes, though, the other bigmechs got brave.   
  
Like tonight.   
  
Tonight, Bob eyed one particular bigmech who’s watching Ratchet and Sunstreaker with narrowed optics and anger swirling about his body. He sat alone, clutching a big drink, and he stared and stared and stared in their direction. He didn’t come over and say anything, but he stared.   
  
He didn’t move either.   
  
Except when Sunstreaker got up to get Ratchet a refill because he was thirsty and Sunstreaker was a good gather-mate. That was when the bigmech suddenly got up from his table and pushed through the crowd, making a beeline straight for Sunstreaker.   
  
Bob didn’t know what the bigmech had in mind, but it wasn’t good whatever it was. He knew threat and anger when he saw it.   
  
He slipped out from under the table and glanced up at Ratchet. Carry-mate was glaring into his drink and not paying any attention. He’d be safe here in this isolated corner. Right now, Sunstreaker was the one who needed Bob.   
  
Bob scurried into the crowd before Ratchet could notice him. He kept low to the ground, scuttling around under foot, most bigmechs moving aside to make way for him. A few hands tried to pet him, tried to offer treats, but Bob didn’t fall for it. He was a defender-mate with a mate to protect, and nothing would distract him.   
  
Not even that really yummy chewy treat Rung was holding out for him.   
  
He might go back for it later though. As soon as he stopped the angry bigmech from bothering his Sunstreaker.   
  
He caught up to them right as Sunstreaker turned away from the bar, holding a drink in each hand. He glared at the angry bigmech, and his armor twitched. He’d been cornered, and he looked like he wanted to fight his way free, but Sunstreaker knew better. He was trying to be so good.   
  
The angry bigmech took a step toward Sunstreaker, and Bob leapt forward, shoving between them. He snarled at the other mech, hackles raised, his pointed denta bared.   
  
“Your stupid pet doesn’t scare me,” the bright red angry mech snapped. He pointed at Sunstreaker’s chest, but couldn’t get close because Bob growled at him again. “I don’t know what you did to Ratchet, but I’m going to find out, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows.”   
  
“It’s none of your business,” Sunstreaker retorted, and the drinks rattled in his hands. His field was wild, chaotic, but worried beneath it all. For Ratchet? For the situation? Bob didn’t know.   
  
He didn’t like it when Sunstreaker was worried or scared. It was too much like when they first met, when Sunstreaker was a chaotic ball of twisted emotion. Bob had worked too hard to help him heal.   
  
He growled louder and lurched toward the angry bigmech, who danced backward, proving himself a liar. Hah. He was definitely afraid.   
  
“If that thing bites me, I’m calling Ultra Magnus!” Angry bigmech hissed, and his optics were wide and startled and maybe a bit panicked.   
  
A circle of other bigmechs started to form around them. They’d drawn a crowd. Nobody intervened though. They were too interested in the gossip.   
  
“What the frag is going on over here?” Ratchet’s voice cut through the madness, and Bob whined out of concern. Ratchet didn’t need to be anywhere near this mess.   
  
The crowd parted, letting him through, and Ratchet read the situation in an instant. His optics darkened, his field spiking with anger.   
  
"I want an explanation, and I want one now," Ratchet growled as he shoved his way to Sunstreaker's side, something which probably would have intimidated mechs if it weren't for the fact he was visibly sparked.  
  
In Bob's old Hive, that would have accorded him respect and care and yes, fear. Carriers could be downright lethal if they thought their unborn were in danger, and Ratchet was dangerous even without being sparked.  
  
The bigmech should be wary.  
  
"Sunstreaker? Crosswise? Answer me," Ratchet demanded.  
  
"Just a little disagreement between friends," the angry bigmech outright lied because his glare never moved from Sunstreaker. He looked like he wanted to do violence, and there were other bigmechs crowded around behind him that looked like they were on his side.  
  
Sunstreaker wasn't alone at least. He had Bob, and he had Ratchet. But also, he had gathered Smokescreen and Boss and Inferno and that other mech whose name Bob could never remember but loved playing fetch with Bob from time to time.  
  
Sunstreaker snorted. "We're not friends." He didn't take his gaze away from Crosswise either. "Crosswise here seems to think you have poor judgment, Ratchet. And an even poorer opinion of me."  
  
"This again?" Ratchet's engine growled loudly. "All right. I've had enough of this."   
  
He raised a hand, held it to his lips, and a piercing whistle cut through the noise of Swerve's, so loud several mechs cringed, and the music ground to a stop. Silence fell, save for the occasional mutter.  
  
"Listen to me all of you drunk idiots," Ratchet bellowed, and Bob whined a little because Ratchet was damn loud. "I'm only going to say this once, and after that, I'm going to start talking with my wrench."  
  
He grabbed Sunstreaker's wrist and held it aloft, drink and all. Sunstreaker startled, his optics wide, but before he could speak, Ratchet continued,  
  
"I'm with Sunstreaker. We're having a sparkling together. It was my decision, my choice, and it's none of the business of any of you fraggers why. I don't have to explain myself to you. He doesn't have to explain himself to you. I don't owe you a fragging thing. Understand?"  
  
Silence swept through Swerve's. Somewhere in the back of the crowd, a cube shattered as it hit the ground.   
  
"Y-yes, sir," Crosswise muttered.  
  
A chorus of voices rose up around him, murmurs and mumbles and whispers of agreement. Someone started laughing and Bob recognized Whirl's cackle, though he wasn't sure what Whirl found so amusing. Neither did Cyclonus, apparently, as he hissed at Whirl, and Tailgate pushed in closer to Whirl’s side, keeping him in a protective huddle.   
  
"Good." Ratchet lowered their joined hands and stormed forward, tugging Sunstreaker along with him. "Now I don't want to hear another word about this."  
  
Sunstreaker's optics widened, and he stumbled after Ratchet, still carrying their drinks.  
  
Bob trembled with pride. They had the best, bravest, and strongest carry-mate on the ship! He hissed and growled at Crosswise and the mechs backing him up before he trotted along after his mates, having to hurry to catch up because they were making a quick exit. Well, as quick as they could considering Ratchet had taken on something like a waddle.  
  
Ratchet pulled Sunstreaker all the way out of Swerve's and down the hallway, heading in a very familiar direction. Toward home.  
  
"Why did you do that?" Sunstreaker asked as they finally slowed to a more reasonable pace and walked side by side, leaving Bob to trot along after them.  
  
"It needed to be done," Ratchet grunted. He released Sunstreaker's hand and palmed the rise of his abdomen instead. "I'm getting tired of a bunch of busybodies sticking their noses where they don't belong."  
  
Sunstreaker's field flexed with discomfort. "You lied."  
  
"Did I?" Ratchet arched an orbital ridge, looking a bit amused. "We're having a sparkling. You are with me. We're taking care of things together. The definition doesn't matter to anyone but you and me. Frag everyone else."  
  
"I don't deserve that," Sunstreaker said.  
  
Bob growled and bounded up next to his gather-mate, bumping into Sunstreaker’s side and making him stagger. He yipped up at Sunstreaker and glared.  
  
"Bob, what the frag?" Sunstreaker spluttered as he tried to catch his balance.  
  
Ratchet chuckled. "I think that's his way of telling you that you do deserve it. A fact I happen to agree with."  
  
Sunstreaker caught himself just as Ratchet snagged his hand again and threaded their fingers together. He startled, looking down at their joined hands. "No one's watching," he pointed out.  
  
"They don't have to be," Ratchet said.  
  
Bob chirred with delight as Sunstreaker’s field flushed, and he ducked his head. Shy, if anyone asked Bob, but no one did.   
  
They went into Ratchet’s habsuite – now Sunstreaker and Bob’s too – and Ratchet pulled Sunstreaker all the way into the berthroom, drinks and all. Bob tried to follow, but they closed the door in his face.   
  
That was not fair.   
  
“Sorry, bug,” Sunstreaker said from the other side. “We’ll let you in later.”   
  
Bob knew what that meant. He chuffed at the door, though they couldn’t hear him, and plopped down right in front of it. He crossed his paws and curled into a spiky ball, settling in to wait.   
  


~

  
  
Sunstreaker continued to carry the engex because he didn’t know what else to do with them. The glasses technically belonged to Swerve, and he’d have to take them back at some point, but thinking of that required more logic than he had on hand right now.   
  
Ratchet’s words kept reverberating in his head. Echoing, over and over, sounding like a promise Sunstreaker desperately wanted to be true.   
  
Ratchet bustled around the berthroom they now shared, turning off the main lights, leaving the bedside lamp aglow, fluffing up the pillows and the blankets before he turned back toward Sunstreaker. His lips curved into a gentle smile as he chuckled.   
  
“You’re not supposed to take those out of the bar, I’m pretty sure,” Ratchet said as he closed the distance and plucked one of the glasses from Sunstreaker’s hands. “Not that I’m ungrateful.” He tipped the cup back and drained it in a few quick gulps, which was not at all surprising.   
  
Ratchet was consuming for four right now.   
  
On impulse, Sunstreaker handed Ratchet the drink he’d obtained for himself. “Honestly, I forgot I had them until now.”  
  
Ratchet chuckled again, and Primus, it was a beautiful sound. “We did make something of a spectacle, didn’t we?”   
  
“Sorry.”   
  
Ratchet cut him a sidelong look, slipping the cube out of Sunstreaker’s hand with a lingering sweep of his fingers. “Someday, I’m going to get you to stop apologizing for things you don’t need to apologize for.” He pulled away and climbed into the berth, lacking any semblance of grace with the rounded nature of his belly getting in the way. “Especially to me.”   
  
“I have a lifetime of mistakes to apologize for,” Sunstreaker said.   
  
Ratchet snorted. “Everyone does. The trick is to realize when you’re done apologizing.” He squinted at Sunstreaker. “You don’t owe those idiots anything. You’ve paid your dues. It’s enough.”   
  
“You’re the one who put Optimus back together. It’s never going to be enough,” Sunstreaker pointed out. He hovered by the berth, knowing he was invited, but reluctant to accept the offer.   
  
Ratchet’s lips pressed together in a thin line. He looked at Sunstreaker, and Sunstreaker would have given anything to know what Ratchet was honestly thinking.   
  
Instead, Ratchet patted the berth beside him. “Join me,” he said, and finished off the second cube of energon while he waited.   
  
Sunstreaker obeyed.   
  
The moment he was within reach, Ratchet grabbed him, pulling him onto the berth. Sunstreaker yelped and caught himself at the last minute, before he landed on top of Ratchet. Instead, he found himself drawn into what was clearly a cuddle, Ratchet tucking himself into Sunstreaker's frame, and Sunstreaker's palm cupping the warm roundness of Ratchet's abdomen.  
  
"The war's over," Ratchet said after a moment, his ex-vents puffing over Sunstreaker's seams and making his sensory net tingle. "The only way any of us are going to recover and move forward, is if we leave the past where it belongs."  
  
"Maybe some things are unforgiva-- ow!" Sunstreaker stared down at Ratchet, bewildered. "You pinched me."  
  
"Because you're not listening." Ratchet huffed, optics narrowed, his field rising up and falling down over Sunstreaker's like a hot, thick blanket. "Forgive yourself, Sunstreaker. That's the first step. No one else matters until you've done that."  
  
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip. He looked away. His spark ached, a pain intangible for its origin.  
  
"Besides, it's up to me who's good enough for me, and I’ve already decided you are," Ratchet added and there was affection in his tone and in his field both, heavy and clinging like the embrace of an oil bath.  
  
"You're stuck with me. That doesn't count," Sunstreaker said.  
  
Ratchet gripped his chin, forced Sunstreaker to look at him, and his optics blazed. "Do you really think I'm the sort who would've done this with someone I don't like because I didn't think I could do it alone?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then why do you think that's what I'm doing now?"  
  
Sunstreaker stared at him, hope rising like a hot air balloon in his spark, though he kept reaching for the ascending rope and missing. Ratchet had a point, only Sunstreaker didn't dare believe it, because it sounded too much like all the things he wanted to hear.  
  
Ratchet's grip eased to more of a caress, his gaze softening. "Circumstances aside, if this were real, I'd be honored to call you my partner. All right?"  
  
Sunstreaker kissed him. Because he didn't have words, or at least the right ones or careful ones, and actions spoke much louder. So he dipped his head, claimed Ratchet's mouth, and indulged in a kiss that wasn't born of heat-desperation or carry-need. He slid his arms around Ratchet's frame, deepened the kiss, and tasted the sweet engex on Ratchet's glossa, his field rising and crashing over Ratchet's like a sizzling tidal wave.  
  
Ratchet made a muffled moan beneath him, but he pulled his frame against Sunstreaker's, rocking their armor together, gripping onto Sunstreaker's seams, his field rising in kind, filled with heat and lust alike.  
  
Words were useless. Sunstreaker poured his emotion into the kiss, into the wandering of his hands over Ratchet's frame, and how he gently guided Ratchet onto his back, so Sunstreaker could kneel between his thighs. His lips followed the curve of Ratchet's jaw, into the warmth of his intake.  
  
Ratchet's hands swept up his back. He arched up toward Sunstreaker with a quick indrawn vent, and then he said, "You don't have to do this."  
  
Sunstreaker paused and drew back, so he could see Ratchet's face. "What?"  
  
"I'm out of that stage," Ratchet explained, his actions belying his words as his thighs scrubbed along the outside of Sunstreaker's, his frame shifting restlessly beneath Sunstreaker's own.  
  
Sunstreaker squinted. "Do you want me to stop?" He sat back a little, putting a respectful distance between them, his weight resting on the berth to either side of Ratchet instead.  
  
"Not at all." Ratchet's mouth twisted in a wry grin that wavered self-deprecatingly. "I'm just letting you know that you don't have to do this for the sake of my carry."  
  
Sunstreaker tilted his head. "What if I want to kiss you because I want to?" he asked, and he slid a knee forward, gently. "What if I do this because I want to touch you? Is that all right?"  
  
Ratchet's vents hitched, a shudder racing visibly across his frame. His backstrut arched. "Yes, but--"  
  
"But what?" Sunstreaker asked, genuinely confused. If Ratchet wanted it, and Sunstreaker wanted it, what was Ratchet's objection?  
  
"Look at me," Ratchet spluttered, and probably would have thrown up his hands if their frames weren't entangled. "I'm old. I'm cranky. I'm sparked up with an Insecticon's spawn. What about this would you willingly frag?"  
  
Sunstreaker blinked. "All of it?" he answered, tentatively.  
  
Ratchet's mouth opened, jaw moving. "That's, that's ridiculous!" he spluttered. "Sunstreaker, I'm many things, but attractive is not one of them. You could have your pick of good-looking mechs. I'm not so vain as to count myself among them."  
  
Anger surged through Sunstreaker before he could halt it. Not anger at Ratchet, but for him. Because he was wrong.  
  
"If I'm good enough for you, by your standards, then you can't say that the opposite is true," Sunstreaker said, perhaps a touch too fiercely, a touch too much of truth behind it. "I'm kissing you because I want you, and that's the truth of it, Ratchet. So if you don't want me to make love to you, then say so. Otherwise, let me kiss you and make you feel good."  
  
"I don't want you to stop," Ratchet said, his vocals husky and wanting, his fingers curling deeper into Sunstreaker's seams.  
  
"Good."  
  
He kissed Ratchet again, pouring all of his adoration and emotion into the kiss. His hands swept over Ratchet's frame, stroking and touching, tracing seams and finding erogenous zones he'd discovered over the course of the past few months.  
  
Ratchet moaned beneath him, gripping tight, pulling Sunstreaker closer. His field rose up, clashing against Sunstreaker's, rippling with hunger and need. He melted into Sunstreaker's touch, as if finally giving in to Sunstreaker's effort, and it was wonderful.  
  
Sunstreaker hated that Ratchet thought so little of himself. Everyone loved him, respected him, appreciated him. Why would he think himself unworthy?  
  
"You're beautiful," Sunstreaker murmured against Ratchet's lips, because it was true. He believed it with all his spark. His mouth wandered to Ratchet's jaw and lower, licking and sucking over his intake cables, feeling the buzz of life beneath his lips. "You're amazing. You should know that."  
  
Ratchet shivered, his thighs pressing in on Sunstreaker's hips, and the sweet scent of lubricant followed the sound of a panel snicking open. "I'm sparked," he grumbled.  
  
"You're doing something I could never do." Sunstreaker shifted his weight and slipped a hand down, cupping the bump of Ratchet's abdomen, stroking the distended plating. He was gentle as he traced the expanded, tessellating plates, caressing the overlapping dermal layers. "You're braver than I'll ever be."  
  
"It's not bravery, it's accident," Ratchet said, without any strength behind the claim. He shivered, rolling up against Sunstreaker, the heat of his arousal wafting over Sunstreaker's groin.  
  
"It became brave when you decided to keep them." Sunstreaker shifted again and dragged his mouth down, kissing across Ratchet's chestplate and chassis before finding his way to the rise of Ratchet's abdomen.  
  
The visible swell was overly warm, running hotter than the rest of Ratchet's frame.  
  
"Braver when you chose to do this alone," Sunstreaker added as he pressed a careful kiss to Ratchet's belly, hearing Ratchet's ventilations shift. "I will help you. I will be by your side. But you don't need me, and I know that."  
  
Ratchet's hands curve over his shoulders, one of them moving to cup his intake, thumb sweeping a stroke on the underside of his jaw. "Who knew you were such a poet?"  
  
"It's not poetry. It's what I really think." Sunstreaker scooted further down, flattening on the berth to get his mouth in a more useful place, the scent of Ratchet's lubricant floating hot and sweet to his nasal sensors.  
  
His mouth watered. Ratchet was already swollen, lubricant gathered in the depths of his valve, his anterior node plump and pulsing brightly. His spike hadn't emerged yet, but Sunstreaker coaxed it free with a few passes of his fingers. Ratchet shivered and rolled up to meet his touch, his hands fisting the mesh blankets, a low cry escaping his mouth.  
  
The sound of his pleasure made Sunstreaker shiver. Heat surged through his lines, made his spike pulse in its sheath. He waited, however, dipping his head to lay a long lick up the length of Ratchet's valve, ending with a suck to his anterior node.   
  
Ratchet moaned, thighs trembling around Sunstreaker's shoulders. He wanted to hear more, so he did it again, and again, licking long and deep into Ratchet. Tasting him, savoring him, slurping up his lubricant and suckling and lapping at his main node.  
  
Ratchet's valve pulsed against his glossa, his swollen folds plump and hot. His hips rolled, rocking against Sunstreaker's mouth, wordlessly asking for more. He groaned, and did so even louder, when Sunstreaker curled a hand around Ratchet's spike, giving him a few quick pumps.  
  
"Sunny," Ratchet moaned, and Sunstreaker's spinal strut tingled with desire, spike pulsing again. He wouldn't allow anyone else to call him that. Only Ratchet. And hearing it from Ratchet sent another surge of arousal through his frame.  
  
"Tell me what you want," Sunstreaker got out before he dove back in, licking and sucking at Ratchet's valve, determined to pull free an overload before he allowed himself one. "Anything you want."  
  
Ratchet pawed at his shoulders, struggling to reach over the rise of his belly. "You," he panted, hips rocking toward Sunstreaker's mouth. "Just you."  
  
Primus.  
  
Sunstreaker shifted again, rising up so he could swallow Ratchet's spike, as he slipped two fingers into Ratchet's valve, curling them to stroke over the cluster of sensory nodes right behind his rim. Ratchet sucked in a sharp ventilation, hips bucking, a sharp cry leaving his mouth. He grabbed hold of Sunstreaker's shoulder and bucked, the spill of transfluid painting his glossa as Ratchet overloaded. Sunstreaker swallowed, savoring the burst of satisfaction in Ratchet's field.  
  
Ratchet's valve rippled around his fingers, as if trying to suck him deeper. Charge spilled over his armor in a blue wave.  
  
Sunstreaker suckled him gently, easing him through the overload tremors, until Ratchet slipped from his mouth, and Sunstreaker rose to his knees. He kept his fingers in Ratchet's valve, gently stroking and rubbing, Ratchet's calipers trembling and squeezing.  
  
Ratchet looked up at him, optics hazy, hand grasping for Sunstreaker's free arm and gaining hold of his elbow. "Come here," he said, tugging. "Kiss me, damn it."  
  
He climbed up Ratchet’s frame, fitting himself between Ratchet’s thighs, their mouths clashing together in a wet smack of lips. Sunstreaker’s spike nudged against Ratchet’s valve, and Ratchet grabbed his hip, yanking him forward. He slid home in the next second, his vents sputtering at the sudden ripple of heat around his spike.   
  
Ratchet’s thighs clamped around his hips, his frame rising up to meet Sunstreaker’s thrusts. Their mouths clashed, kisses wet and uncoordinated. Sunstreaker’s optics shuttered, his vents coming in sharp bursts, Ratchet’s field winding over and through his. He soaked in the moment, gave himself to the pleasure, all the while wishing he could keep it forever.   
  
Sunstreaker didn’t last long. He’d held himself back as it was, and Ratchet moving beneath him, their frames engaged in a familiar dance, was too much temptation to resist. He shuddered as he overloaded, spilling deep inside Ratchet, and felt Ratchet ripple around him. Charge danced over Ratchet’s frame, lighting up the space around them, Ratchet stealing his mouth for another kiss.   
  
It was slower this time, more savoring, as their fans spun, vibrating their frames, and they cycled down from arousal. Ratchet’s hold gentled. Sunstreaker’s free hand stroked every armor plate within reach, until Ratchet tipped them on their sides, and wrapped himself in Sunstreaker’s embrace. His engine purred with satisfaction.   
  
Sunstreaker’s hand pressed to Ratchet’s back, swearing he could feel the pulse of Ratchet’s spark against his palm. Ratchet’s rounded abdomen nudged against Sunstreaker’s own belly.   
  
Something scratched at the door. There was a mournful chirp from beyond.   
  
Ratchet chuckled against Sunstreaker’s chassis. “I think someone’s a bit upset you left him out in the cold.”   
  
“He keeps trying to join in,” Sunstreaker grumbled.   
  
“To be fair, he’s technically participated before.”   
  
Sunstreaker snorted. He would have just ignored Bob, but the bug could cause quite the racket when he felt he was being left out.   
  
“You can let him in,” Ratchet said. “I’ve gotten used to him recharging on my ankles.”   
  
Sunstreaker absolutely did not want to get up from the berth and Ratchet's embrace. But he knew Bob would only get louder and more insistent, and besides, he needed to wipe Ratchet down and bring him some coolant. He always overheated post overload.  
  
"I'll get him," Sunstreaker said, and slipped out of Ratchet's arms and off the berth.  
  
He opened the door and let Bob inside. The silly bug gave him an indignant chuff before he strutted to the berth and hopped onto it, immediately going in to lick Ratchet's face, causing Ratchet to chuckle. Sunstreaker rolled his optics and retrieved some damp meshcloths, as well as giving himself a quick wipedown while he had the opportunity.  
  
It felt so domestic that a pang of want rippled through Sunstreaker's spark before he could stop it. It was domestic, and he wanted to keep it, but it wasn't his to keep, and that thought hurt like a physical blow. He sucked in a vent, shuttering his optics, as the sadness swept around him.  
  
He hadn't realized how much he wanted this -- a partner, a family, stability, happiness -- until it dangled in front of him like an unobtainable dream.  
  
Sunstreaker bowed his head, cycled several ventilations, his hands forming fists that squeezed solvent from the mesh cloth. Ratchet waited for him. Ratchet needed to be cared for. Right now, Ratchet depended on him. It would have to be enough.  
  
It wasn't.  
  
But it would have to be.  
  


~

  
  
After Ratchet's declaration in Swerve's, the harassment eased off until it became nonexistent. They still stared at Sunstreaker and whispered behind his back, but they stopped confronting him, and they stopped trying to chase him away. It wasn't much, but it was something.  
  
Life went back to a relative normal.  
  
Unless one counted the fact Ratchet had been put on berth rest. It was a situation that satisfied no one, not even the medic who had put him there.  
  
Ratchet, surprising no one, made for a terrible patient.  
  
Sunstreaker was taken off any sort of duty and assigned to be Ratchet's assistant in all things. Which mostly resulted in him running around fetching anything Ratchet wanted, while remaining steadfast in the face of cranky grumbling mutterings.  
  
Ratchet could work just fine, thank you. It didn't matter that he waddled and his back hurt and his legs ached and he could have those sparklings any day now. He was in peak physical health. He'd suffered worse through the war! This was nothing! He could still do his job!  
  
Sunstreaker swallowed down his own retorts. It showed on his face, but at least not on his glossa. He didn't know how First Aid managed to stay serene through it all.  
  
Bob wasn't the least bit bothered by Ratchet's temper. He kept bringing energon and blankets and every once in a while, he'd disappear, and Sunstreaker would find him tucking bits and pieces of random things into a mesh nest he'd built under Ratchet's console. Attempts to clean it up were met with bared denta and growling and snapping, and Bob didn't usually do that toward Sunstreaker.  
  
He backed off. What was a little mess? He figured it had something to do with being an Insecticon, and maybe Bob knew he'd sparked Ratchet up and was doing only what he knew how to do for the coming sparklings.  
  
Sunstreaker left him be.  
  
“My guess is that he’s nesting,” Perceptor said when he came to visit Ratchet, visibly sparked himself, his abdomen swollen from the growth of his pod. “We don’t know much about Insecticons, but given they’re hive-like nature, I’d gather Bob is accustomed to preparing a place for their sparklings. I’m sure he knows Ratchet is sparked.”   
  
“Yeah. He’s pretty smart for a bug,” Sunstreaker agreed as he hovered around the two sparked mechs, ready to offer coolant or energon or a blanket or a sweet treat, whatever the two needed.   
  
Well, he tried to hover as unobtrusively as possible. Brainstorm had already been evicted for hovering too much, though Sunstreaker suspected it was because he kept aiming scanners of various design at Ratchet and Perceptor both.   
  
No one was surprised that Perceptor had turned his own sparking into an opportunity for scientific observation.   
  
“Why is that you get to walk around the ship as you please, and I’m stuck in this berth?” Ratchet grumbled, though he was being unfair as Sunstreaker had helped him out of the berth and into a comfortable chair he and Drift had carted into Ratchet’s quarters last week.   
  
“Good luck,” Drift had said with a not-at-all jealous look. “Just remember, you love him for his grumpiness even when it’s reached pinnacle levels of grouch.”   
  
Sunstreaker had been so startled by the assumption he loved Ratchet, he’d nearly dropped his end of the chair.   
  
Drift had smirked at him, winked at him, then strutted out of the berthroom, but not until he’d needled Ratchet into a fine snit, one Sunstreaker had to soothe with copious backrubs and a blowjob. Not that putting his mouth on Ratchet was any sort of hardship.   
  
Perceptor gave Ratchet a level look. “Because I am not carrying twins,” he said, in that prim tone Sunstreaker used to hate, until he realized it was simply Perceptor’s way, and he wasn’t actually as judgmental as he sounded. “Besides, it is not for much longer.”   
  
“Too long if you ask me,” Ratchet huffed. He softened, however, when Bob trotted up and chirped at him before offering a handful of Ratchet’s favorite treats. “Thank you, Bob.”   
  
The unfairly cute bug skittered over to Perceptor next, sharing in the bounty. Sunstreaker would get none, but Bob would bring him some midgrade with healthy minerals in it, and Sunstreaker supposed that was fair.   
  
“Thank you,” Perceptor said, and nibbled on the treats, free hand unconsciously cupping his belly.   
  
All of the sparked mechs had come to visit Ratchet, though Perceptor was most frequent. Ultra Magnus came when time allowed, often to ask for advice, and while he’d told Ratchet the sire of his sparkling, he was still mum to everyone else. Whirl came less often, mostly because his personality was too large for Ratchet’s quarters to contain, especially when one took into account Cyclonus and Tailgate at his heelstruts.   
  
“I’m ready for this to be over,” Ratchet said.   
  
Perceptor hummed. Being sparked softened him, Sunstreaker had noticed. He was less severe, though no less dangerous. The layers of danger he’d crafted around himself to survive the war seemed to be sloughing off, miniscule sheet by sheet. Maybe he’d eventually be the Perceptor they remembered.   
  
Maybe.   
  
Brainstorm seemed to like him either way.   
  
“It will be interesting to see how the crew responds to little ones running around underfoot,” Perceptor said. He absently nibbled on the treats, gaze distant. “I’ve gotten numerous offers for caretaking. From Drift especially. I think he is a little envious.”   
  
Ratchet shifted on the chair, and winced, his hands both going to his belly, which was so visibly distended it looked painful. “The dam’s broke. There’ll be another heat, mark my words. It can be his chance then.”   
  
Perceptor chuckled. “True enough.” He tilted his head, orbital ridges lifting. “Are you certain we can’t run a scan or two? Twin carries are so rare.”   
  
Ratchet glanced at Sunstreaker before shaking his head. “I’m sure. I’ve no interest in being a scientific research project, especially with that menace you call a partner.”   
  
Sunstreaker snorted a laugh, and smothered it in the next moment.   
  
“Fair enough.” Amusement radiated from Perceptor rather than offense.   
  
Bob circled them again, offering a meshblanket this time, and Sunstreaker sat back, waiting for an opportunity to be useful. Ratchet was right in that it wouldn’t be long now.   
  
All any of them had to do was wait.   
  


****


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more Ratchet/Bob-ish content, but also depicts the birth and hatching of the eggs, so if you're a bit squeamish, this may be difficult.

Ratchet jolted out of a light doze with a sharp, rippling clench radiating through his abdomen. He ground his denta, hiding a hiss behind them, as his hands instinctively went to his belly.  
  
Sunstreaker looked up from a nearby chair, datapad in his lap, concern in his optics. "Everything okay?"  
  
Ratchet waited, waited, waited for the tensing cables to seize, and then he cycled a ventilation. "I'm going to guess I'm going into labor," he said.  
  
His valve panel popped without his consent. Liquid spilled between his thighs, immediately soaking the berth beneath him.  
  
Ratchet cringed. There was no such thing as dignity when it came to being sparked. "Correction. I am most definitely going into labor."  
  
Sunstreaker jerked up from the chair, nearly tossing his datapad across the room. "What? Now? Here?"  
  
At his feet, Bob stirred and jumped up, skittering around in a little excited dance.   
  
Ratchet grunted and pulled himself halfway upright, shoving a pillow behind his back. "Yes." He grimaced as another rippling surge of cramps radiated through his belly, much faster than he would have expected.  
  
He felt around the berth, palpating the curve of his abdomen and between his legs. The liquid seeping from his valve was thick and viscous, not at all like lubricant. He was carrying eggs, not pods. Who knew how different that would make the birthing process?  
  
"I'm going to get First Aid," Sunstreaker said.  
  
"No!" Ratchet growled it out over another contraction. "We can do this without him."  
  
Sunstreaker turned toward him, optics wide, hands up. "Ratchet, I'm not a medic. And you're not going to be in a state of mind to tell me what to do."  
  
"I don't want him here!"  
  
"Why not?" Sunstreaker's optics were pale with worry, and Bob kept dancing around his feet, raising the chaos of the moment.  
  
Ratchet ground his denta, squeezing his optics shut through another painful seize of his abdominal cables. He groaned, long and low, backstrut sending a ripple of pain through his frame, while a wave of heat followed in its wake.  
  
"Is it because they're eggs?" Sunstreaker asked in a moment of bright clarification. "Because that's ridiculous."  
  
Ratchet glared at Sunstreaker, and pushed off Bob's all too interested face, the Insecticon trying to climb into the berth with him. "It's my choice."  
  
"It's our choice, and I'm choosing to get help." Sunstreaker spun on a heel and darted out of the room before Ratchet could protest.  
  
Damn it.  
  
He growled and thumped a fist on the berth. Bob whined and wriggled his aft, antennae canting toward Ratchet with worry.  
  
"I'm fine," Ratchet said, though his sharp intake vent belied it.  
  
Bob chirped and leapt onto the berth, sniffing pointedly at Ratchet's abdomen. Ratchet sighed. He didn't have the energy to push Bob back off.  
  
The Insecticon tried to nose between his thighs, and Ratchet clapped his knees together, giving Bob a firm glare. "I don't need your help, thank you very much," he said. “You’ve done enough.”   
  
Bob chuffed. He scampered over to Ratchet’s other side and nosed at his belly, long glossa extending to lick at an expanded seam. Ratchet would have swatted him away, if not for another sharp contraction making him wheeze and almost double over, more tacky fluid gushing from his valve.   
  
He had no idea if this was normal or not.   
  
Another squeezing cramp squeezed a groan out of Ratchet. His vents rattled, and his optics fritzed with static.  
  
Bob whined and nuzzled at his belly, giving it a lick.  
  
"I'm fine," Ratchet groused.  
  
The Insecticon huffed at him and darted away before Ratchet could swat at him. He scuttled down to the end of the berth, out of reach, and stuck his face uncomfortably near Ratchet's bared valve with another audible sniff.  
  
Ratchet's head thunked against the pillow. "Why am I bothering to be shy now?" he grumbled. He flicked a hand. "Fine. Whatever. You know more about this than I do-- argh."  
  
His vision flickered. His engine whined. It felt as though his entire abdomen had squeezed and pinched. He fisted the covers, back arching, thighs spreading of their own accord, and his valve calipers started to ripple in an undulating wave, stirring his internal sensors into sending low waves of heat through his groin.  
  
This was much, much faster than the standard Cybertronian carry. He should have known Bob would make things complicated.  
  
Maybe it was a good thing Sunstreaker had gone to get First Aid.  
  
Ratchet reset his optics, forcing his vision to clarify, just in time to see Bob stick his face between Ratchet's legs and give his bare valve a long, wet slurp. Pleasure licked through Ratchet's sensor net as a rough Insecticon glossa lapped over his anterior node, unexpectedly bright and swollen.  
  
Ratchet groaned a curse word, heat flooding his face. Conflicting sensations rattled through his frame as Bob licked him again and again, making him more wet, provoking more of the weird, thick lubricant to ooze from his valve. It felt like the contracting of his calipers was getting easier. Was there something in Bob's oral lubricant?  
  
Pleasure coiled in Ratchet's abdomen, battling with the tight, clenching waves of his gestational walls contracting. He thought he should try and urge Bob away, because he had no idea if this was a good thing or bad thing, but his thoughts kept splintering in pieces every time he tried to gather them together.  
  
He clung to an edge of coherence and pinged Sunstreaker.  
  
"We're on our way, I'm not going to argue about this with you, Ratchet," Sunstreaker replied with a stern note.  
  
Ratchet groaned. "I know. I get it. Whatever. Just... come in first and grab Bob before you let First Aid in, all right? This is humiliating enough as it is."  
  
"Is he hurting you?"  
  
"The opposite, in fact."  
  
No sooner had he answered than did the door open, Sunstreaker sliding inside alone. His optics widened.  
  
"He's insistent," Ratchet managed as another long, savoring lick made him twitch with pleasure, his hips unconsciously bucking up toward the warm, wet mouth. "And I can't tell if he's helping or if I'm imagining it to make myself feel better."  
  
He felt... disassociated from the situation. He could probably pick apart his coding and figure out why, a defensive or protective mechanism for the sake of himself and the sparklings, but right now, as much as the contractions hurt and Bob's ministrations felt good, he couldn't muster any anxiety or worry. A touch of shame, but only because he felt he should be ashamed, not because it was actually there.  
  
Sunstreaker's jaw worked. He took a step toward the berth and then hesitated, "Should I stop him?"  
  
"If you want me to accept First Aid's help, then you damn well better." Ratchet's threat petered off into a groan, his denta clenching, a stronger, sharper contraction visibly rippling over his abdomen. He would have curled into himself, if he could, and another gush of fluid spilled out from between his thighs.  
  
Bob made the weirdest sound, a cross between a burble and a chitter. He looked up at Ratchet, face smeared with fluids, and antennae quivering. If Ratchet had to guess, he'd say Bob was excited? Expectant?  
  
"And quickly," Ratchet said. "Something tells me these eggs are coming sooner rather than later."  
  
There was a shifting deep inside him, like the three masses in his tank were starting to move, pushed toward the port by the contractions of his gestational walls. Ratchet distantly tracked the odd sensation.   
  
Sunstreaker nodded and approached the berth in full, reaching out for the Insecticon. "Bob. Come. You're in the way."  
  
The Insecticon whined, but miracle of miracles, scuttled away from Ratchet and off the berth. He kept close, however, moving to the side of the berth on Ratchet's right, his primary arms braced on the edge. His strange field buzzed over Ratchet, unreadable.  
  
"Come on in, Aid," Sunstreaker called out.  
  
"I'm not decent!" Ratchet growled.  
  
Sunstreaker gave him a look that was a startlingly decent reproduction of the glare Ratchet gave recalcitrant patients. "You're in labor."  
  
The door opened, First Aid backing inside, dragging a cart full of equipment behind him.  
  
"I'm offended that you think I'm not professional enough to care for you," First Aid said as the door closed, and he wheeled the cart closer. "Or worse, that you think I'm not skilled enough to do my job properly."  
  
Ratchet grunted through another wave of contractions, and one of the eggs in his tank nudged against the port exit, stretching the rim. "That's not why I hesitated."  
  
"Isn't it?" First Aid finally looked at him, and a scan hit Ratchet immediately. "Or do you just not trust me in general?"  
  
Ratchet dragged in a heavy vent, his head dropping back against the pillow behind him. There was no point in being coy now. First Aid would find out the truth soon.  
  
"They're not pods," he said as Sunstreaker moved to the other side of the berth, standing next to Bob and keeping a hand on the back of his collar fairing. "They're eggs."  
  
First Aid turned and grabbed something from the cart behind him. "I know.” He popped the top of a cube and held it out to energon. "You trained me, Ratchet. Of course I know how to read an antenatal scan. I've always known they weren't pods."  
  
Ratchet stared at him.  
  
First Aid returned it evenly. "I'm offended you think I'm such a close-minded aft that I'd judge you and refuse proper medical care for a situation that's no business but yours." He huffed and stared at his datapad as the readings pinged back. "This is moving about as quickly as I expected."  
  
"How do you know?" Sunstreaker asked.  
  
"Because once I figured out Ratchet wasn't going to come to me for the medical advice he needed, I started doing research on my own to make sure we'd be prepared." First Aid didn't say 'duh' but there was something in his tone that implied it.  
  
The retort on the tip of Ratchet's glossa died as another contraction seized his frame, longer and harsher than the ones before. The egg squeezed against the internal port, the contractions making it push, push,  _push_  through before it popped past the flexible rim. Ratchet groaned, vision briefly going white with static.  
  
His entire gestational tract contracted and squeezed and rippled, guiding the egg through. Ratchet's backstrut arched, his denta grinding, legs spreading of their own accord.  
  
"And here they come," First Aid said on the edge of Ratchet's awareness. "Sunstreaker, support him. Ratchet, I need you to ventilate."  
  
Ventilate? Oh, that explained the honking overheat warnings at the back of his cortex.  
  
"Just focus on ventilating," First Aid said as another spurt of fluid seeped out of Ratchet's valve. A hand grasped his, squeezing tight. Sunstreaker's maybe.  
  
It was hard to tell. Most of his focus was on his internals, and the squeezing push of the egg as it squeezed through the gestational transition and pushed through his valve, rubbing against his valve lining and sensor clusters. The contracting was a dull ache, but pleasure spiked through his sensory net in confusing waves behind the egg's passage. His anterior node felt swollen and pulsing, ripe with impending pleasure.  
  
The egg notched against his interior boundary and stalled, a touch too wide to make it past his rim, and Ratchet groaned. He squeezed Sunstreaker's hand, his valve trembling and rippling, the egg rubbing over and over against the cluster of nodes behind his rim. His hips rocked of their own accord, his vents coming in sharper gasps.  
  
"Ratchet, I'm going to manually stimulate you," First Aid said, his tone perfectly clinical, and Ratchet clung to it as something steadfast in a tossing storm.  
  
"Do... whatever you have to do," Ratchet managed, his voice thick with static, his optics shuttered as he struggled to maintain coherency, feeling as though he hovered on the cusp of overload while the egg stalled in place.  
  
"Don't punch me, Sunstreaker," First Aid said, and before Ratchet could comprehend why he'd say that, there was a light, gentle touch to Ratchet's anterior node.  
  
That was all it took to send him shuddering into overload, charge crawling over his frame, valve rhythmically spasming, pleasure shooting lightning through his lines. Ratchet moaned, arching into the pleasure, and the egg popped free of his valve with an audible sound, into First Aid's waiting fingers.  
  
The forceful contractions eased, though his gestational system fluttered around the other two eggs, jostling them in his tank.  
  
Ratchet panted, trying to focus on ventilating, unshuttering his optics to peer down at the egg First Aid cradled. It was smaller than he expected, with tesselated silver plates forming a smooth surface, currently slick with gestational fluid.  
  
"... Is it...?"  
  
"He's alive," First Aid said with a reassuring pulse of his field. His fingers gently tracked around the circumference of the egg. "I'm detecting a spark beat."  
  
Bob chirped and skittered to First Aid's side. He'd been so quiet during the birthing, Ratchet had forgotten he was there, but now Bob was scrambling up, trying to see the egg.  
  
"Let him see, Aid," Ratchet winced through a bruising contraction. "It's his spawn after all."  
  
First Aid held out the sticky egg to Bob, who immediately sniffed it, and then licked it. His antennae twitched with delight, and before First Aid could react, Bob snatched the egg from him, tucking it under an arm. He scampered out of reach and scuttled toward the door, one nimble secondary hand punching it open.  
  
He vanished into the outer room, and Ratchet briefly heard the sound of rummaging before the door shut.  
  
"He's not going to eat it, is he?" Sunstreaker asked, tense where he sat next to Ratchet, as though unsure if he should give chase or not.  
  
Ratchet worked his intake. "Bob's been building a nest for a reason. I doubt it's to make a nice place for dinner. Just let him do what he needs to do."  
  
"Bob's fine," First Aid said, shaking himself out of distraction and focusing on Ratchet once again. "You need to focus on the two bitlets you have left."  
  
Ratchet's gestational tank seized as though hearing First Aid's words. A second egg jostled into place, moving toward the exit port.  
  
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand and leaned in, brushing his lips in an unexpectedly tender kiss to Ratchet's forehead. "You're doing great," he said. "You can do this."  
  
"Of course I can," Ratchet groused, but he squeezed back, and focused on ventilating through the rapid increase of contractions once again.  
  
The rest was a blur of pain and pleasure.  
  
The second egg came much easier, emerging with an overload that tore a low moan from Ratchet's lips and an arch from his backstrut. He saw through static as it was handed first to Sunstreaker, and then to Bob, who who had returned long enough to retrieve it, and then scuttled away with it to his nest, like had the first.  
  
Exhaustion kept trying to set in, but every time Ratchet thought he might give in to it, a new surge of energy swept through his frame. He hovered on the edge of overload, as if someone had a finger on his sensor net and kept caressing every one of his erotic hotspots.  
  
It hurt, and it felt good. His engine revved, his fans spun so hard they ached, condensation gathered on his frame, and static crept into his vision, his audials, stealing away moments of time.  
  
Distantly, he heard First Aid. "One more, Ratchet. One more. And it's the biggest, I think."  
  
Of course it was.  
  
Ratchet groaned, head lolling, and felt Sunstreaker's iron grip on his hand, the quiet murmurs in his audial, the soft stroke of his field. He concentrated on that instead of the tangled pain and pleasure as the egg worked through him, pushing and pushing, his insides contracting tiredly, his valve throbbing with mingled heat and hunger.  
  
He ached, and his valve hurt, and First Aid was massaging the exterior of his valve, trying to coax him further open. It would have embarrassed him, if he wasn't so damn ready for this to be over, he couldn't care anymore.  
  
“Let me help,” Sunstreaker murmured, his voice like a warm promise in Ratchet’s audial, his frame pressed against Ratchet’s side. His free hand skated down Ratchet’s abdomen, leaving curls of arousal in its wake.   
  
“Please,” Ratchet begged, and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. He wanted this done. He wanted to  _rest_.  
  
Sunstreaker nuzzled his cheek. His lips left a warm path, and so did his fingers, down, down, until they brushed over Ratchet’s anterior node with gentle caresses and surges of tingling pleasure.   
  
“One more push,” First Aid urged. “One more.”   
  
Ratchet groaned, long and low, clinging to Sunstreaker as his valve rippled and Sunstreaker’s gentle touch sent him into a third overload. His calipers contracted, his rim stretched wide, burning and threatening to tear, before the egg popped free, and Ratchet sagged back into the berth. His valve quivered weakly, the last overload thin and unsatisfactory.   
  
Ratchet’s optics went to half-mast. He dragged in several shuddering vents, thighs still lying open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to care. His world was a haze, and he felt stretched raw and empty.   
  
Sunstreaker’s warmth started to withdraw and Ratchet pawed at him blindly, managing to find Sunstreaker’s forearm somehow. “Don’t go,” he mumbled.   
  
“I’m not.” Sunstreaker’s lips brushed his forehead. “I’ll be right here. For however long you need me.”   
  
Forever, Ratchet wanted to say. He bit his glossa instead.   
  
“Recharge,” First Aid said from somewhere at the end of the berth. He patted Ratchet’s ankle, his field urging calm. “We’ll take care of the rest.”   
  
“We’ll talk later,” Sunstreaker murmured. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, his field settling warm and soft like a blanket.   
  
“We’d better,” Ratchet murmured, before he let the pull of recharge sweep him away.   
  


~

  
  
Ratchet slept.   
  
Sunstreaker worried.   
  
The eggs were fine. Bob had tucked them away in his nest and was now purring as he perched over them, licking them clean and turning them with his secondary hands. Bob had been a fierce guardian of Sunstreaker, so he had little doubt the Insecticon would be an even fiercer guardian to his sparklings.   
  
“We won’t be able to hide their nature,” First Aid commented.   
  
Sunstreaker turned from the doorway, back to the berthroom, was First Aid packed up the medical equipment he’d brought. They’d already carefully cleaned Ratchet and tucked cleaner berth covers around the medic’s frame. Ratchet hadn’t stirred the entire time, though First Aid assured him that was to be expected and perfectly normal.   
  
He looked at ease, face smoothed over with peace, vents quietly snuffling, frame loose and lax as he lay curled against the berth. His abdomen was still somewhat rounded, but again, First Aid reassured him that Ratchet’s frame would contract and smooth over in a few days.   
  
“The sparklings,” First Aid clarified as he cleaned a tool Sunstreaker couldn’t identify. “Everyone will be able to tell they are of Insecticon origin.”   
  
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt them,” Sunstreaker said. This was a given. He didn’t have to think about it.   
  
He had no idea what kind of sparklings Ratchet and Bob would end up with. Maybe they wouldn’t even survive. He didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to let some idiot with a prejudice kill them on principle alone. They were Ratchet’s sparklings. They were Bob’s. And maybe, if Sunstreaker was really lucky, he’d get to be a part of their life, too.   
  
First Aid nodded slowly, seemingly focused on the task at hand. “Granted,” he said. “I’m just warning you. I have no idea what they’ll look like or how intelligent they’ll be. The only thing I’m sure of is that they already look neither mech nor Insecticon and that shows.”   
  
“I don’t care. No one hurts them.”   
  
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” First Aid’s field trickled out, offering a medic’s comfort and reassurance.   
  
Sunstreaker rebuffed him. He didn’t want it from First Aid.   
  
“If I might ask, did you and Ratchet sparkmerge?”   
  
Sunstreaker blinked out of his stupor, casting a confused glance at the other medic, who still seemed perfectly distracted by his tools. “We aren’t actually together.”   
  
“Oh, I knew that.” First Aid knew a great many things apparently. “That doesn’t answer my question though.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Then what’s the point?”   
  
First Aid’s visor shifted toward him, and acute sense of assessment behind the glowing brightness. “Did you participate in his heat at all?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Then the sparklings are partially yours as well,” First Aid said, his tone so matter of fact considering his words had sunk into Sunstreaker’s cortex.   
  
He cycled his optics. “What?”   
  
“It’s uncommon, but not impossible.” First Aid set down the cleaned tool and started closing up the sides of the box, latching it shut. “I can run tests to be sure, but in most cases, all mechs who contributed to the heat have a genetic stake in the offspring.”   
  
First Aid pushed the cart to the door and paused near Sunstreaker, his head tilted to look up. “They’re as much your sparklings as they are Ratchet’s and Bob’s. Don’t forget that, please.”   
  
Sunstreaker straightened. “You’re leaving?”   
  
A small chuckle rose out of First Aid’s intake. “Well, Ratchet is resting comfortably, I’ll probably lose a hand if I try to take an egg from Bob, and you’re here to look after all of them. There’s really nothing left for me to do.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“You can call me if you need me.”   
  
First Aid pushed the cart toward the doorway, giving Bob a wide berth, which Sunstreaker didn’t blame him for, considering the way Bob stared at him from under the desk. It wasn’t threatening, but it was definitely watchful.   
  
“Thanks,” Sunstreaker blurted out before First Aid managed to leave. He crossed his arms, shifting from foot to foot. “For helping and not… not judging.”   
  
“What’s to judge?” First Aid asked, and then he was gone, the door swooshing open and shut, locking behind him.   
  
What’s to judge? Right.   
  
Sunstreaker checked on Bob, who looked up at him, antennae waggling, far less guarded then he’d been with First Aid. Sunstreaker crouched down, peering into the nest of assorted cloths and bits. The three eggs were nestled together, carefully defended beneath Bob’s bulk.   
  
“You’re going to keep them safe, right?” Sunstreaker asked.   
  
Bob chirruped and hunched down, neatly concealing the egglets. His optics blinked in arrhythmic succession.   
  
“Good boy.” Sunstreaker smiled, but didn’t try and pet Bob. He didn’t want to push his luck. “They’re our family now. Them and Ratchet. We gotta protect them all, don’t we?”   
  
Bob dipped his head and chirped.   
  
Agreement. Good.   
  
Sunstreaker stood and puttered around Ratchet’s quarters. He’d been here long enough to be considered living here, and evidence of his and Bob’s relocation were scattered all around the suite, intermingled with Ratchet’s belongings as well. His polishing supplies and Ratchet’s abandoned tinkering projects. Bob’s boxes of treats and Ratchet’s energon flavorings.   
  
They’d somehow turned it into a home.   
  
Sunstreaker hoped they could keep it that way.   
  
He grabbed a tray and arranged some cubes on it, coolant and energon and anything else he thought Ratchet might want or need. This he carried into the berthroom, and not a moment too soon either as Ratchet started to stir.   
  
Suntreaker set the tray on a nearby table and sat on the edge of the berth as Ratchet’s optics unshuttered open and he ex-vented a soft groan.   
  
“I feel like I got run over by Trypticon,” Ratchet said as he pulled himself up against the wall, sitting upright.   
  
“Pain? Or just soreness?” Sunstreaker offered him a cube of energon, which Ratchet accepted, immediately popping it open and downing half of it in one go.   
  
“Soreness,” Ratchet answered once he’d lowered the cube. “I’ll get over it.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the bitlets?”   
  
“With Bob. In his nest. They haven’t hatched yet. If hatching is what they do.” Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and reached for Ratchet’s hand, relieved when Ratchet offered it to him.   
  
He rubbed Ratchet’s palm, putting all of his focus into the light massage, rather than look into Ratchet’s face. He wasn’t sure what he’d find there, and he was too much of a coward to find out.   
  
“Ah.” Ratchet cycled a noisy ventilation. “Thanks, by the way, for your help.” He loosed a wry, dry laugh. “Note to self, overloading is apparently necessary for Insecticon birth.”   
  
“Necessary and normal,” Sunstreaker agreed. “First Aid said so.”   
  
“Of course he did.” Ratchet grunted and finished off the rest of his cube, setting it off to the side. “It’s still odd.”   
  
Sunstreaker rubbed Ratchet’s palm gently, focusing intently. “First Aid said something else, too.” He cycled a ventilation, unsure why he felt nervous, save that something in the air was shifting, and he didn’t know if it would be accepted or not. “He said there’s a good chance the bitlets are partly mine as well.”   
  
“Yes, I’d considered that possibility. It’s very likely. Which, in my opinion, is a good thing. It can only help.” Ratchet’s hand turned in his and he tangled their fingers together.   
  
Sunstreaker nodded, staring hard at their joined hands. “You just have to tell me, Ratchet. If you want me and Bob to leave, to give you your space, we’ll do it. I know this wasn’t really your choice.”   
  
“Stop.”   
  
Sunstreaker clamped his mouth shut.   
  
“Look at me, Sunny.”   
  
He reluctantly lifted his gaze. Ratchet’s free hand cupped his face, palm warm and gentle.   
  
“Don’t talk to me about not having a choice,” Ratchet said, his tone somehow both firm and affectionate. “There are things I didn’t get to choose, but choosing you is not one of them.”   
  
Sunstreaker worked his intake. “What do you mean?”   
  
The corner of Ratchet’s mouth curved upward. “Stop telling me what I don’t want. I’m going to choose you, and you’re not allowed to try and change my mind.”   
  
Ratchet’s words filtered into his cortex and hit a wall of confusion. Sunstreaker stared.   
  
“Unless, of course, that’s the opposite of what you want,” Ratchet corrected with a squeeze to Sunstreaker’s hand. “In which case, I apologize for making the wrong assumption. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”   
  
Sunstreaker shook his head. “No, no. I just...” He trailed off and leaned in closer to Ratchet, leaning into the gentle touch against his cheek. “Choose me, if you want. I chose you a long time ago.”   
  
Emotion flickered across Ratchet’s face, too quick for Sunstreaker to read. “We’re a bunch of blind idiots,” he murmured before he pulled Sunstreaker toward him, their lips slotting together in a gentle kiss that would have been sweeter, if Ratchet didn’t taste like the medical grade Sunstreaker had fed him.   
  
It was worth it.   
  
“So let’s just go ahead and make this official,” Ratchet said as he pressed their foreheads together. “You and me.” He paused and amended, “And Bob and whatever our sparklings turn out to be.”   
  
Sunstreaker smiled, his spark throbbing brightly in his chassis. “Sounds perfect.”   
  


~

  
  
Bob chirred a quiet melody to himself as he licked his newsparks clean and kept turning them slowly, encouraging them to unfurl. He could hear their little sparks beating and hear their movements inside the protective sphere.   
  
Four little ones!  
  
He was so excited he felt he might burst. He’d thought there were only three, but there were four! How exciting! Four new ones to add to the Hive, to the family. He had the strongest carry-mate, to carry and birth four sparks so strong and vibrant and beautiful.   
  
Bob couldn’t wait to see them unfurl. He wondered what they’d look like. He wanted to teach them all sorts of things.   
  
He hoped they were a little smarter. Maybe they could learn the weird mechspeak and could help translate so Bob’s mates would be able to understand him. It would be nice to finally communicate properly.   
  
Bob settled over them, tucking them against his belly, into the cradle of warmth, and let his power core rumble. The vibrations would soothe them.   
  
Sound pulled his attention outward. Ratchet and Sunstreaker emerged from the berth room, smiling, their fields peppering the air with happiness and affection. Ratchet still felt a little tired, and Sunstreaker had to support him, but he looked in overall good health. Such a strong carry-mate!  
  
They nuzzled each other and pressed their mouths together in an affectionate kiss. That swirl of unease and sadness they’d always carried around each other seemed to be gone now.   
  
Finally!  
  
Bob was starting to worry they’d never realize the truth. Bob, of course, figured it out a long time ago. But he supposed the big-mechs couldn’t help it. They didn’t have powerful nasal sensors or field sensors or as many optics as Bob did. They couldn’t see the obvious.   
  
Movement stirred beneath Bob’s belly. He chirped and scuttled upward, peering down at the base of the nest. One of the eggs, the bigger one, rocked back and forth, the plates of the protective shell twitching and clicking.   
  
Hatching!  
  
Bob chirruped louder, trying to get Ratchet and Sunstreaker’s attention. He danced in place, nudging the eggs a bit out of the nest so they’d be in view, but not in danger. The big one twitched harder, almost jumping, and now the other two stirred as well, quiet clicks and grinds coming from the interior.   
  
“Bob?”   
  
“What’s up, bug?”   
  
Bob patted the big egg with his smaller hand, chirring at the egglet.  _Come out, come out_ , he told the little one.  _We want to see you_.   
  
An answering pair of chirps echoed from within.   
  
“Is it hatching?” Sunstreaker asked.   
  
“Do I look like an expert on Insecticon biology?” Ratchet grumped, but they both crouched into view anyway, peering curiously down into the nest.   
  
Silly big-mechs. Always arguing about something.   
  
Bob nosed at the unfurling egg, and chirred with delight when the plates finally tesselated apart, ever so slowly. Limbs emerged, barely armored and completely undecorated. They were protoform silver because their colors hadn’t come in yet, but they would eventually.   
  
The sphere unfurled and fell apart into two separate hatchlings, identical in appearance, their blue optics online but dim. Antennae sprouted from their heads and little nubbins on their back suggested they’d have wings. Bob was a little jealous. He didn’t have wings.   
  
They immediately reached for each other cuddling together, and started nomming on each other’s shoulders. Bob urged them closer and licked the tops of their heads, so they’d know his scent as sire-mate.   
  
“Twins,” Sunstreaker murmured. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”   
  
Ratchet leaned in, resting a head on Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “And you were doubting whether or not you contributed.”   
  
Sunstreaker lifted a hand, but he hesitated, curling his fingers back inward. “Bob, can I hold them?”   
  
Of course he could. Such a silly question.   
  
Bob chirred and scooped up the little twins, holding them out to Sunstreaker. They wriggled in his hands, protesting the lift, but Sunstreaker took them gently, a look of wonder on his face.   
  
Another egg started to click and twitch, so Bob moved his attention to that one. Oh, both of them actually. Both were wriggling, their plates shifting as they tried to unfurl.   
  
“First Aid was right,” Sunstreaker said as he held the bitlets close and they squirmed in his hands. “There’ll be no hiding that they’re part Insecticon.”   
  
“It doesn’t matter. They’re ours and if someone has a problem with it, they can take that up with me,” Ratchet replied. Peripherally, Bob saw him lean in, stroking a finger over one of the bitlet’s tiny arms.   
  
“If I could claim them on my own, I would.”   
  
Ratchet sighed a ventilation. “One, it’s you and me now so no more of that. And two, yes, it’s a bit humiliating, but I’ll survive it.” His voice softened, turning warm and fond. “When these are the end result, well, I’m not too upset.” He chuckled. “Or maybe that’s just my active carrier coding, I don’t know.”   
  
One of the bitlets unfurled, and Bob chirred as he licked the little mechlet. No wings this time he noticed. The mechlet looked more mech than Insecticon sadly. He could already see the beginnings of mounts for wheels, and he had no spike nubbins or antennae. Oh, well. Bob would love him still.   
  
Ratchet leaned in, reaching, and Bob offered the non-bug mechlet to Ratchet, while the third egg started to quiver.   
  
“That one looks like you,” Ratchet said, to Sunstreaker.   
  
Sunstreaker smiled gently, his optics shimmering with some emotion. “Apparently I had more influence on these bits than we thought.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing.”   
  
Bob smiled at their flirting and turned his full attention back to the last emerging hatchling, his plates unfolding much faster and smoother than the other two. What unfurled was larger than all the others, his protoform a darker silver. He had little spike nubbins and antennae and four eyes and what was maybe a secondary set of arms growing in under his primary pair.   
  
Aw. He was adorable.   
  
Bob purred and cuddled the biggest bitlet close, nuzzling the hatchling and cooing as he cleaned off the last of protoform fluid from his frame. The bitlet squeaked and squirmed before giving in to the affection with a huff.   
  
“That one is definitely an Insecticon,” Sunstreaker commented.   
  
Bob looked up and chirruped at his other mates.   
  
“He’s ours. That’s all that matters,” Ratchet said as he produced a small cube from his subspace and was dipping a finger into it, trying to offer the dripping finger to the sparkling he cradled. “We’re family.”   
  
Sunstreaker’s face outright softened. “Yeah. We are.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss Ratchet, their mouths coming together sweetly.   
  
Bob purred approval and nuzzled the bitlet in his arms. His new Hive and his new family.   
  
It was everything he ever wanted.   
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. :)


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